Since I'm new to the Frozen fandom, I guess I'll introduce myself: Hello! Name's Be, and I have a master's degree in Making People Suffer. Ergo, I write hurt/comfort! (and there's lots of it in this fandom, for some reason, and while it's that's my jam, it really surprised me).

Nice to meet you! :)

For those who might find any of this familiar: yes, I'm reposting this story and yes, you should totally reread it as this has some major changes.

Also, while implicit, this story deals with serious, sensitive issues. I'll add content warnings when necessary, but keep it mind.

They had died on a Friday night, yet Saturday dared to be a sunny day.

In movies, death is always dramatic, shocking, agonizing. The world stops for those who cry through blacks veils, with the rain in the background serving an absurd, cliche metaphor. And without any previous ideas, as it was common to exclude children from family tragedies, Elsa thought there would be some similarities.

However, the second hand of the clock didn't stop, the pop song on the radio didn't turn into a melancholic piano, nor gray clouds took over the sky. Birds kept singing over the backyard tree, the neighbor's dog barked at what sounded like a cat. Everything continued as it was minutes before the phone call. The only thing that changed was Elsa's personal, small, and immediate reality.

From one second to another, cold entered her body. It was slow and subtle, the way it froze her lungs and permeated the bones with every breath. It went deeper and deeper until her muscles trembled, the tip of her nose ached and her tears turned into frost. There was no notion of time or balance, and even boiling water felt like a glacier on her back.

An hour later, the world was exactly as she left it. With the difference of a coffee left forgotten, a ballad playing in the background, and a phone that kept ringing.

It seemed like a distant memory, a moment lost in time among others, but it actually happened this very morning. Elsa found it hard to place herself in time when cold settled in her body this way. She had no idea what she was doing anymore, just that she was doing things. Working on autopilot, being whoever was needed at the time. Whether it was a document provider, a shoulder to cry on, a witness in the identification process at the morgue, or just someone sitting at hospital stairs.

She needed air and daily life. The bustle of the avenue, conversations that ranged from people complaining about traffic to gossips about someone she'll never meet. The evening sun illuminating the butterflies that perched on some nearby flowers. The constant city noises. The normal.

When Elsa crossed the entrance, it was easy to believe this was some illusion that would disappear as soon as she felt her fingertips again.

The constant buzzing of the fluorescent lights amidst the morgue's silence brought her back to reality.

Her parents were dead. They weren't coming back.

The cold had yet to leave Elsa's bones.

A few meters away, some kids played plastic dinosaurs over the steps, detached from the reality of the hospital behind them. Someone who seemed to be their mother sat next to them, seeing and warning them if they got too far. Elsa remembered those weekends of family visits and evenings in the park. Anna always brought her dolls and they would wander around, looking for leaves and sticks to make rudimentary little houses for them.

Once they got so far away they ended up by the pond, looking at a family of ducks that went out to ask for food and then returned to their small island. Her mother didn't find it cute or amusing. Neither did Elsa because since Anna was five, it was up to her to be the most responsible of the two.

Suddenly, death made sense.

She wanted to cry tears of frost again. Perhaps with sadness, perhaps with some anger.

Why cry, though? Under what specific reason? That was the question. The motive, the real motive.

Grief that they wouldn't be around anymore? That she'll have to come home to an empty house and end up bawling in the middle of the living room? Yes, grief, that is. For the most part, she supposed. Because she loved them and they loved her back and always tried to do what they thought was best. That was how the phrasing usually went, at least. Both ways. You care. I care. We do the right thing. Everything is okay as it is. No complaints allowed.

No complaints, no, none at all.

But then what about the anger? What about the pain and the anger and the guilt at the smallest of the sparks of joy at the idea of freedom and the confusion because this is not what closure should feel like at all, even if someone had to die in the process but it didn't really feel like it so how—

How was this closure?

How this was anything but, at the same time?

The easy way, it was the easiest way out.

This wasn't the best time to analyze these things —it never was— as she was sure even the mere thought of it was disrespectful. And Elsa shouldn't even feel anything remotely similar in its structure. Better to conceal it, if she ever did, pretend it didn't exist for the sake of the world around her.

If it's not there, then it's not real.

Was there any proof? No, there wasn't. Therefore nothing is real, because Elsa took pride in her ability to hide certain things. She still did and wasn't about to stop it now.

So she stood there with her chin on her knees. In her immediate, personal tiny world. Where everything is fine, separations don't hurt, sacrifices don't exist, and she is a beautiful, happy puppet living a beautiful, happy life in her paper mache stage.

Bad habits die hard. Especially when you're not putting in any effort.

She stayed like that, for a while. Listening to casual conversations of those who came and went, watching carelessness and innocence wander around with cotton shoulders between laughter and dinosaurs with airplane growls. Watching those who had the opportunities Elsa had to disassociate herself from.

Somehow, she could make out the footsteps, growing stronger as they approached. They were fearful and insecure, and for a moment she wondered if it wasn't someone on the run.

Elsa knew who it was when they took a seat in the same cautious way. Their presence was enough. The feeling was... strange, but certain. Just like when you are alone at night and you know someone is right behind you. Turning around, then, means facing a catastrophic reality, an imaginative mind, or intangible memories.

"Hey."

Elsa turned her head, as there were no tragic events behind her this time, but quite the opposite. Anna was sitting there, right next to her.

At least two years had passed.

The morgue wasn't the most ideal form of reunion, to tell the truth. And a part of her wished that there never had to be one. That they had received the news together, that Elsa could feel the cold on her fingertips and her tears had been shared, instead of melted frost. Yet seeing her younger sister laugh with the cotton shoulders Elsa couldn't keep, in all those occasional meetings over the years, was worth it. Anna was happy for both of them, and that was Elsa for enough.

However, this wasn't the time to give in to melancholy, to apologize for past attitudes, or to offer explanations. It was about in the here and now, for the immediate need to find comfort.

Elsa saw Anna's lips tremble. She seemed to be looking for the right words while the sun made confusion, uncertainty, and anguish dance on the reflection of her green eyes. So as soon as she made the gesture of reaching out, her sister leaned down with the full force of body action and a fresh wave of tears.

It was comforting warmth, the kind that brings you back to reality little by little. That gives time to breathe and to adapt to feeling sensations again, and that was so contrasting with the burning, scorching fire. It felt like hot chocolate in winter or curled up under the covers. Soft, gentle, restorative.

She hugged her tightly by the shoulders, resting her chin against the top of her sister's copper hair, and closing her eyes to the point that she saw colored spots, so as not to take the protagonism out of Anna's tears.

"I'm sorry," Elsa whispered, almost not finding her voice. "I'm sorry, Anna."

I'm sorry for your loss. I'm sorry for our loss.

She was sorry with all the honesty in the world and, at the same time, she wasn't. Because of the guilt at the smallest spark of joy on the hidden parts of her soul. The parts she had no proof of and, therefore, didn't exist. She had to be the pretty but sad little puppet with her now sad little puppet life in her paper mache stage.

This was the best outcome of it all, despite what everyone might say.

Because their parents were dead.

It was better that way.

Constructive criticism is welcome! Chapter 2 is on its way! This ride just started.