Hinter

The Hinter House

During my stay at the Hinter House in Montreal, I encountered something entirely unfamiliar to my California life—the snow bug. Known in Japan as Yukimushi, these delicate creatures appear only moments before the first snow, as if heralds of winter itself.

My trip to the Hinter House was unplanned, born from a restless impulse to capture the cabin on film, yet I arrived with no storyline in mind. But the forest had already written one for me. The moment I stepped into its quiet embrace, I was met by a cloud of snow bugs, their wings like drifting cotton, shimmering in the crisp air. They moved with a tenderness that stilled me, as if nature itself had paused to whisper a secret. In their fragile flight, I felt a quiet invitation—an urging to listen, to notice, to surrender.

This film is born from that silence. It is a meditation on the way Hinter House breathes through its seasons. Each shift—whether it is the first blush of snow, the thaw of spring, the bloom of summer, or the fading fire of autumn—carries its own spell, its own rhythm. And within those cycles, there is a promise: that time here is not something to chase, but something to feel.