She remembers a snowfall, long ago, the first snowfall of the year. It was her birthday. Her mother wasn’t there, so she hummed a little song to herself as the caretaker brought her an extra piece of cake. She was still rather small then, her hands to small to fit in the palm of the old woman.

“Happy birthday Hinata-chan.” The old woman said in a dry, raspy voice that Hinata feared a little.

“Thank you, Oba-san.”

That winter, Hinata received from her father a small pearl and jade hairpiece that looked like a flying fish leaping over the wave.