Elsa's trying to make some snow—she knows she's not supposed to, but she wants to see if maybe she can make it happen just a little, instead of all at once—when she hears the noise outside her door.
She stifles a sigh. It has to be Anna—her visits have stopped happening so much recently, but no one else would be up this early.
The door rattles a little, and there's a quiet, shuddering breath. "You're my sister," Anna says through the keyhole, and her voice is different—when did her voice change? When will her voice become a stranger's? "I don't care if you're real or not."
A choked noise comes out of Elsa's mouth before she can stop it, and the snow rushes out of her hand in a torrent.
On the other side of the door, Anna whispers, again: "You're my sister."
There's a long, long pause that hovers in the stale, cold room; then she hears the receding patter of Anna's footsteps, and slowly, carefully sinks onto the floor, willing herself to conceal, to be silent.
The snowflakes slow, and suspend themselves in the air.