The night was heavy.
Not just because of the rain pounding the rooftops like the sky was crying with restrained fury, but because of the trapped stench that lived inside that house forgotten by time. A sour mix of sweat, cheap alcohol, half-smoked cigarettes, and rotting food.
On the floor, empty beer cans formed a path between overturned chairs, unwashed dishes, cigarette butts, and the remains of what once was a home.
And among all that trash, in a corner, sitting as if she had fallen there by accident, was Rika Nakamura.
Her black hair was tangled, covering part of her face. Her eyes, open but lost, were red and wet—not from crying... but from living too long with a broken mind.
Her lips moved nonstop, whispering things no one else could understand. As if she were talking to invisible presences. To voices that only existed in her mind.
—They're coming... they're here again... don't go, don't go... —she kept saying, with a strange tenderness that hurt more than a plea.
Meanwhile, in the middle of the living room, the TV flickered between static and colorful lights. A group of musicians was playing live at a Japanese festival.
The volume was high, but even that couldn't drown out the roar of hatred growing in the chest of the man sitting on the couch.
David Gunn, an American who once had dreams. Now he only had beer and a line of white powder under his nose.
—Fucking idiots! —he growled, staggering while holding a half-empty bottle— That should be me! Those assholes have no talent!
Without thinking, with a violent motion, he threw the bottle hard at the television.
Crash!
The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. The TV toppled backward with a dull thud. The lights went out.
—To hell with everything! To hell with this shitty life! —he shouted, panting.
Rika, startled, stood up shakily. Her eyes now had a frenzied gleam, as if for a moment she had come out of her broken world.
—You're a fucking useless drunk! —she screamed— You just broke the only TV we had, you damn bastard!
David turned like a wounded animal and roared back:
—SHUT UP, YOU SCHIZO BITCH! You ruined my life! It was you, WHORE!
The argument boiled over like a pot, spilling rage throughout the house.
And while that happened...
Ryuji Nakamura, only 13 years old, was lying in his room. The only tidy room in the whole house.
Covered with a blanket up to his head, headphones on, trying to escape the storm with an old cellphone in his hand. The screen showed a video from his favorite channel: a snow documentarian named Godert.
In the video, a man in a thick coat and white hat spoke calmly while showing penguins in the distance.
—Today we'll see how penguins care for their chicks during the last days of the Antarctic winter...
Ryuji smiled slightly, eyes tired but glowing just a bit.
—Godert is the best at this stuff... —he whispered— I wish I could meet him someday... see the penguins with him.
The sound of a bottle smashing downstairs didn't startle him. He was used to it.
On screen, Godert smiled.
—And now, guys, as usual, we'll say goodbye with our weekly Snowman. Ready?
Ryuji rested his head on the pillow, still watching closely.
—Let's see what he makes this time… Last week it had a plaid scarf…
Godert began shaping snowballs, one after another, explaining each step. He used small tubes for arms, shiny pebbles for eyes.
—I think it's missing a special touch... Ah, right... the nose! But… hmm… no carrot…
Godert looked around, pretending to be desperate.
—Well, you know what? It doesn't matter if it doesn't have a nose. Being different isn't a mistake. As long as it has what it needs to stand tall, that's enough.
Ryuji chuckled quietly.
—What does that have to do with the nose…?
Godert finished wrapping a scarf around the snowman and said proudly:
—I think this one's my favorite... It has style, it has scars… but it's still smiling.
The video ended. Ryuji slowly turned off the phone.
A furry paw jumped onto the bed. It was Kuro, his husky dog—thin, dirty… but loyal.
—Kuro… —he whispered— You wanted to see the penguins too, right?
The dog licked him, wagging his tail with difficulty. A gesture of affection in the middle of all the chaos.
—You hungry? Me too… —he said with a broken smile.
The shouting continued. The voices were blurry, like echoes in a storm.
Upon reaching the kitchen, Ryuji opened the fridge.
Only beer cans, spilled pills, a banana peel. Nothing else.
—Another night without dinner, Kuro…
The husky whimpered softly. Ryuji bent down to pet him… and then felt the blow.
Crack!
A closed fist to his ribs, sharp, brutal.
The air left his body. He hit the wall.
—Who the hell gave you permission to touch my beer, you useless brat? —David roared, eyes bloodshot with rage.
—Ryuji! —Rika screamed, running to him— Are you okay?
She lunged at David, shoving him with force.
—DON'T TAKE IT OUT ON HIM! IT'S NOT HIS FAULT YOU'RE A FAILED ADDICT!
The whole house filled with screams, insults, chaos.
But Ryuji didn't scream. He didn't cry.
He just watched…
And in his mind, his parents' faces were covered in snow.
White heads. Drawn-on smiles. Pebble eyes.
He smiled. A fake smile. Empty.
—It's okay… —he said.
Kuro licked him, scared.
But then...
David noticed.
—You again, you filthy mutt!
And before Ryuji could stop him, David grabbed the dog by the neck and went out the back door.
—NO! Not Kuro! Let him go!
Ryuji struggled, fell, cried.
Rika, in her delusions, murmured:
—He will die… they'll all die soon… the voices told me… the snow… the snow will cover everything…
A gunshot.
Sharp. Final.
The world stopped.
David returned, holding Kuro's leash.
Stained.
Bloody.
—It's over —he said with a sick smile— Now that filthy thing's finally at peace…
Ryuji said nothing.
He just looked down.
And for the first time in his life…
He cried snowflakes.
Time didn't heal anything. It only covered it in dust, like those old rooms no one dares to open anymore. Since that day—when the gunshot split the night in two and Kuro's blood mixed with the wet earth in the backyard—something in Ryuji stopped trying.
Not trying to live, because he kept breathing, but trying to fight against a world that had given him nothing but cold.
The years passed. The seasons changed. But he stayed the same—taller, quieter, more broken. At fifteen he was no longer a child, but not quite a young man either.
He was just a shadow walking down school hallways, where people's faces seemed distant, distorted. He couldn't see their expressions. He saw them like snowman heads—round, white, empty.
It was his way of disconnecting. An involuntary mechanism that turned people into harmless figures. Because seeing them as real hurt too much. Because thinking they had normal lives was like stabbing his own chest.
At home, everything depended on him. Rika Nakamura, his mother, remained trapped in her delusions. Ryuji gave her pills at the exact hour, cooked whatever he could get his hands on, cleaned just enough to keep the roof from collapsing. David Gunn, his father, came and went like a rabid animal.
He had lost his job, sunk deeper into drugs, more alcohol, more rage. He talked to himself, argued with the television, cried in English while babbling about wanting to go back to America and leave everything behind. Sometimes, he looked at Ryuji with a hatred that pierced. Other times, he didn't even remember his name.
But then, as with all things inevitable, the end came.
Ryuji was 21 when David's body was found collapsed in the bathtub, a broken bottle in one hand and pills scattered on the floor. No one cried.
Not even his mother, who barely reacted when they told her. The funeral was a tense gathering. Ryuji went because he felt he had to, not because he wanted to.
He stood before the coffin, surrounded by relatives in black suits—some crying, others faking sadness. From his perspective, all of them had snowman heads too.
The clothes looked normal, yes. But their faces were white voids. Only one exception.
The photo of his father above the casket. That one had a face.
Maybe, he thought, it was because he was dead. Maybe his mind no longer needed to cover him, because he could no longer hurt him. Still, the pain lingered, silent and sharp.
—In the end... it doesn't matter —he murmured— It's all my fault anyway.
Just then, a scream ripped through the silence of the room. Rika stood up with wild eyes, pointing ahead as if she had seen a monster.
—He's back! He's back! He's here! That bastard's still alive!
Several relatives rushed to restrain her. Ryuji also approached, heart clenched.
—Mom... calm down, please —he said, trying to look in the direction she pointed.
But he saw nothing.
—There's no one there, Mom. Calm down. Dad is no longer with us...
She kept speaking to herself, agitated, out of control. That's when two relatives decided to take her away. They said it was for the best—at least until she could stabilize.
In the end, they took her away in an ambulance to a psychiatric center, and the house felt emptier than ever.
After the burial, the living room was quiet. Ryuji was sweeping the floor, eyes distant, mind still lingering in the memories of the funeral. Every relative who passed by left him with a phrase.
Empty condolences, like giftless wrappers. Until one of them, an older man with a hat and a tired voice, approached him slowly.
—I'm really sorry for everything you've been through, kid —he said— If we had known earlier how things were… maybe all this could've been different.
He reached into his coat and handed Ryuji a card.
—I'm your uncle. I live in Kyoto. If you ever need anything, even just a place to breathe, you can come. We'll be waiting.
Ryuji took the card without saying anything at first. Then he asked in a lifeless voice:
—And what will happen to my mother?
The man looked down.
—She's in bad shape. She can't stay with you right now. She'll go to a rehab center. She needs help—professional and urgent.
—I see... —Ryuji replied, emotionless.
The uncle nodded with sadness, patted him on the shoulder, and walked away.
And then, everything fell silent. A thick silence, one you could breathe in like smoke.
While sweeping incense ashes off the floor, he noticed something out of place. A man dressed entirely in white, sitting on a chair by the window. He hadn't seen him before. Didn't remember his face from the funeral.
His hair was silver, carefully styled. His suit was elegant, but not mourning attire. And the strangest thing—his face was clearly visible. He didn't have a snowman head. He looked... completely human.
Ryuji frowned.
—Hey...? Who are you? I didn't see you at the funeral.
The man looked at him with a calm, kind smile.
—You like snowmen, don't you?
—What? That's not what I asked.
—You don't need to say it. It shows.
Ryuji raised the broom by instinct.
—Look, I don't know who you are, but if you don't leave I'll call the police.
—The police can't heal the wounds you carry inside —the man replied, unmoving— And it doesn't matter who I am. What matters is that I have something for you.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He held it out to Ryuji calmly.
—An invitation. An expedition to the Wynvernia Mountains. The Silent Hills. It's a chance for those who need to breathe. For those who no longer know how to live.
Ryuji didn't take it at first. He looked at the man with suspicion.
—I don't have money. Or a passport. Or the will.
—Don't worry about that. Everything's covered. The expedition pays for everything. You just have to decide if you want to go.
The man stood up slowly and walked toward the door.
—Take your time. But don't be late.
And he left without a sound.
Ryuji was left alone, the letter in his hand. He looked at it. Read the name.
Wynvernia.
A place that didn't exist on any map he knew.
A white place.
Cold.
Silent.
For months, silence was his only companion.
There were days when he couldn't even hear his own footsteps. Not because he wasn't walking, but because he had stopped feeling real. Ryuji Nakamura survived, but he didn't live. He slept out of obligation, breathed out of habit.
The house, once a stage for shouting, was now just a lukewarm graveyard where the only things that moved were shadows.
Since his father's death, not a day had passed without him thinking about ending it all. He had tried more than once. He failed every time. And for that, too, he hated himself.
—None of this would've happened if I hadn't existed in the first place… —he whispered in his mind— It's all my fault…
The feeling of guilt devoured him from the inside. Not just because of his father, or his mother's madness, or even Kuro's murder. It was an invisible guilt, like a hereditary disease, something he felt he had been born with. His refuge now was alcohol.
Not Godert's channel anymore. Not documentaries. Not even the memory of his dog. Just empty cans scattered across the table. Energy drinks and alcohol—a mix of contradictions that reflected his state.
And still… the letter remained. The letter that man in white had given him months ago. On the corner of the table, not fully opened, the envelope now slightly wrinkled.
Sometimes he looked at it. Sometimes he wanted to tear it apart. But he always left it where it was. Like a final thread he didn't yet know if he wanted to cut.
That day, in particular, the sky was gray. The curtains remained closed, the house sunken in trash and dust. Everything smelled of confinement.
Then, persistent knocking on the door forced him to get up, dark circles under his eyes, dragging his feet as if carrying a mountain on his back.
—Who could it be now…? —he murmured with a dry voice.
He opened the door slowly, and standing before him was an older woman, holding a bag in one hand and a box in the other. To Ryuji, her head was another snowman.
He recognized her figure by the voice: it was Mrs. Yamazaki, an old neighbor who used to get along with his grandmother before she passed.
—Ryuji, dear… I'm so sorry about your father —she said with a warm voice— He was a good man, even if he was broken.
He looked at her with an empty expression.
—A good man? Not even he believed that…
The woman remained calm. She extended the box and the plate.
—Even if it didn't seem like it, your father carried his own cross. Before he died, he asked me to give you this. He said only you could open it. And also… I brought some coconut sweets my daughter sent me from the Dominican Republic. I thought they might do you good.
Ryuji hesitated. Then took both things and nodded clumsily.
—Thank you, Mrs. Yamazaki…
He closed the door. Walked to the living room, left the box in a corner unopened. He couldn't. Not yet. The memory of his father was still an open wound. He looked at the sweets. Sat down. Tasted one.
—They're tasty… —he whispered— Seems like the Dominican Republic makes good coconut sweets…
For a moment, his mind drifted far away. He imagined what that country must be like. Beaches, palm trees, warmth… so opposite to the white world of the documentaries. He turned toward the letter from Wynvernia. It was still there. Glowing faintly under the crooked ceiling lamp.
—Maybe… maybe it wouldn't be so bad to visit that place before I end my life —he said, like someone suggesting their final idea before the end.
Days passed.
And suddenly, the plane was already lifting him above the clouds.
Upon arriving at the New York airport, Ryuji felt out of place. Everything was noise, lights, announcements in English. He took a taxi, staring out the window at the crowded streets. The driver, with a snowman head according to his mind, spoke to him.
—First time in the United States?
—Yes… it's my first time —he replied in English.
—Wow, your English is pretty good. Good luck on your trip, sir.
He dropped him off at a distant bus station, where a billboard showed the image of a snowy mountain with the slogan: Wynvernia: a place to heal from the heights.
He got on the bus. Strange passengers awaited him. All bundled up, with hiking backpacks, first aid kits, and faces… real faces.
None of them had snowman heads. That confused him more than anything else. In silence, he sat down, looking out the window. Outside, the snow had started to fall.
—Where are they…? Where are the snowmen…? —he murmured to himself.
Fatigue overcame him. He fell asleep. And dreamed.
In the dream, he was walking across a vast snowy plain, wrapped in a thick coat. In the distance, his dog Kuro ran through the mist, looking at him with those ever-living eyes.
—Ryuji —he said— Do you feel better now?
The cold caressed his face. He turned around. And woke up.
—You've slept long enough, sleeping beauty! Or should I stay and nap with you too? —said the driver in an annoyed tone.
Ryuji blinked, confused. The bus was empty.
—And the others?
—Are you blind? Everyone already got off. We've arrived. Get off, I'm in a hurry.
He apologized, grabbed his things, got off.
In front of him, snow stretched in all directions. A bent metal sign read: Wynvernia: Welcome to silence. He approached a booth where an old man waited.
—Your ticket?
Ryuji handed it over. The old man checked it, marked it with a red pen, and nodded.
—Follow me, please.
They walked to a small wooden cabin. Old, but sturdy. The old man pointed.
—From here begins your experience in Wynvernia. Enjoy it.
And he left.
Ryuji looked at the cabin, suspicious.
—Seriously…? A cabin?
He went in. It was empty. Just one door at the back. He walked to it, opened it… and at that moment, the wind hit him like a wall of frozen glass. A vast snowy field stretched beyond the horizon.
—Interesting… —he whispered.
He was about to go back for his envelope. But when he turned around, the cabin was gone.
Only snow.
Only cold.
Only white hills fading into the mist. The wind grew stronger. At the top, a half-buried rusted sign read: Wynverni. One letter was missing.
—What's going on…? —said Ryuji, his voice trembling.
There was no answer.
And without realizing it, he was no longer in the world he knew.
He was in Wynvernia.
A place that didn't exist.
A foreign, parallel universe.
And maybe, his only escape… or his end.
—What do I do now? —Ryuji said, eyes empty and trembling.