Day One: Kissing You

She was meticulous about everything, naturally, but penmanship was something distinct.



Papa told her once that you could tell a lot about a person from their words. The elegant curve of an S, the proud arc of a C, or the playful tail of a J — they all said something. She looked at her words, her diligently crafted letters, and wondered what they said about her. Not a single letter out of place, not a stroke too wide or too thin, the spacing just right. Perfect.

She was anything but.

But Anna’s words said a lot, sometimes too much, even when they were short.

She heard the telltale footsteps before the knocking.

Rata-tap-tap, tap.

Pushing her chair out from under her, Elsa rose and half-turned, one gloved hand still over her letters. Her eyes honed in on the gap beneath the frame, where a single slip of parchment slid through. Elsa clutched her quill and held her breath. There was a shuffle behind the door, a murmur she strained her ears to comprehend, and then Anna was gone.

Elsa waited a hair’s breadth before moving, gliding over to the door and picking up the letter. She raised her eyes to the ceiling and blinked several times, then read it.

She devoured the words. She held it to her chest, finding her breathing more unsteady.

Elsa swiftly crossed to the adjacent wall of her room, to the long dresser beneath a tall painting. She set the letter on top and bowed to reach the fourth drawer on the left. She opened it and pushed aside satin and silk, until her fingertips brushed parchment. She grasped the newest one and folded it carefully, into pristine edges that hid Anna’s words, to hide them at the bottom of her drawer.

She bid it goodbye with a kiss. Always, each one.