New York

There's another lady working the lathe machine. Tall and fair with blonde pigtails tucked behind her helmet. Almost a splitting image of herself. The foreman flirts with her as she squints at aircraft parts spinning around the lathe, spewing spindles of aluminium everywhere. For a moment, Elsa considers marching down there and telling him to get lost. Asking her name. Where she came from. What happened to the redheaded girl she replaced. But she knows it's useless, because she's not Anna.

All of a sudden, the white dress she's gotten used to wearing at the factory feels like a sham. A front she's putting on in vain.

She doesn't make good on her promise to give Foreman Roberts a bollocking over distracting that blonde. But she does ask him point-blank what the hell happened to Anna.

"Anna Taylor? The redhead? She's volunteered for scrap duty these past couple of weeks, so she's outside in the yard. I don't know why anyone would want to be outside in this weather. We used to make scrap duty a punishment for tardiness but, well - she volunteered."

Still, there's nobody around in the yard. Just neatly sorted bins of defected parts and scrap metal waiting for pickup. Elsa looks at the Sundrop blooms clinging onto life despite the frosty weather and hideous soot spewing from the smokestacks. She lets her eyes fall shut, allowing her heightened senses in winter help detect the slightest trace of Anna's presence. The snowflakes pause their descent as she concentrates. There's a faint neigh; Nokk's call from decades past, Bruni's gentle hiss and an imagined rumble in the earth. Beyond that.

Nothing.

The only thing left within Elsa's soul is an inkling premonition that she really met a ghost. Or some visage that sent her hopes soaring only to plunge her into the depths of a vacant, hollow despair again. And none of the spirits bring her any closer to deciphering the mystery that is Anna Taylor. Nor is the sheen of ice left on her heels when she returns to the empty factory floor. The presses and lathes sit silent during lunch hour - its quiet moment of rest allowing Elsa clarity to think. That little gap where she allows her own spirit to feel. A connection. Ice spreads. A faint line at first - it gleams beneath the amber lights. And once again the thread of fate draws her closer. Elsa ignores the rusty iron machines snagging her dress's delicate fabric as she wanders the factory floor with her eyes shut. Her only guide that zigzagging frost leading her to -

A redheaded girl munching a sandwich beneath a table.

It's in the corner of the shop floor - away from eyeshot of her own office. Anna doesn't even flinch at Elsa's presence. Merely gobbling the rest of her lunch and snapping upright. Something within those eyes claws at Elsa's soul - like a caged falcon longing to be set free. The sharp, stinging premonition is enough to make her wince.

"Anna," the slightest tilt in her voice sending Anna's eyes downwards, "why're you having your lunch here alone?"

The girl shuffles a boot, crosses her hands behind herself. But otherwise remains silent. Eyes averted from Elsa's.

"And Roberts told me you've been working outside in the cold for a week straight."

"I needed some fresh air, ma'am, I-I mean - Elsa," Anna mumbles.

Elsa sighs. The claws scratch away at her soul. Red, ugly marks that will take lifetimes to heal. But she persists. Knowing she could very well be digging herself further into this mess.

"I had a word with the Radisson Munitions Plant and your name was on a list of people volunteering to transfer."

The girl stutters a response. One that appears scripted for this very moment but still takes all her strength to stammer out.

"It's nearer to my home, I can get back before-"

"Anna, you live in Syracuse," Elsa interrupts, "it's way, way further than here. And you know the work they do there is toxic-"

The tone in Anna's voice sharpens like a knife, shrill and urgent, "I'm sorry, I'm just sorry for doing this, ok? Is this what you want to hear from me? Is this enough? Can I just go now?"

Elsa's on the verge of breaking, "I don't need an apology, Anna - I just need you tell me why. Why does it feel like you're avoiding me?"

A gasp breaks the tension between them, before Elsa realises she's backed Anna into a table. The girl leans backwards away from Elsa's towering, radiant presence. Fingers gripping the hardwood. There's a simmering emotion in Anna's eyes. One Elsa has trouble recognising despite their decades together. Before she finally realises the truth she'd forsaken behind those rose-tinted glasses.

She isn't Anna.

And it doesn't matter anyway. Because she tells her.

"Because," the girl answers, voice straining, "I'm afraid of you."

Elsa's expression falters. She steps back, allowing Anna to recollect her posture. And with it, her courage.

"Afraid - why?"

"Because I don't know you!" Anna snaps at her, through gritted teeth, "Each night, each dream - it feels like I've known you for a lifetime. But yet every day when I come here it feels like you're this far away person I don't recognise-"

"Anna-" Elsa's eyes water.

"Like right now," Anna seethes, looking up into Elsa's eyes, "you couldn't be further from me than New York is from London or Paris or wherever on this planet but here."

Anna's unfamiliar Brooklyn accent snaps a shard of glass and rams it straight through Elsa's chest. She grips at the pleats of her dress. Hasn't Anna always been passionate about getting her point across? The gritty tirades and tear-soaked apologies after. Those maddened, blood-boiling accusations and fervent pleas for forgiveness. Slender fingers banging on the table in rage before dragging her head in for reconciliatory kisses-

But when Elsa's eyes swim back to reality. When she notices the dark spots on the collar of Anna's khaki overalls. Nothing alleviates her mind to the fact that this girl isn't who she's meant to be. A fact Anna lays into her without mercy.

"In short," Anna snivels, wiping her tears and shaking her head, "I'm afraid you'll make me out to be someone I'm not."

Without thinking, Elsa's words depart her lips in a fragile whisper, "I've never once expected anything from you."

But they only fall on deaf ears. Arm jerking in a cold twitch as Anna brushes past her on the way out. And when that red crop of hair disappears out the gates, Elsa feels the last hope she'd been clinging onto shatter into a million frozen fractals. Why - why'd you lead me here just to break me? Elsa asks her spirit. There's no answer. Not from herself nor the repotted Sundrop flower mocking her in the office. Or the cloud of ice dust when she destroys it in a seething rage. Her nails dig into the wooden desk littered with rosters and factory plans. Cold tears making the ink run. Hoarse sobbing barely audible over the factory whistle screeching. The women head back to work from their break. Elsa knows there's only one thing left for her to do. She prays to the spirits for the strength to.

There's a letter in her drawer. Stowed away for weeks without a reply. She retrieves it, and in its place - lays Anna's steel rose. It'll probably end up in the scrap bins later. But for now, she can't so much as look at it. Slamming the drawer shut with a gust of frosty wind.

To: Elsa Agnarrsdatter, Director - North Mountain Metalworks

Sincere gratitude for assisting with the manpower transfer during these trying times.

The following names have been submitted for immediate reallocation and we await your approval for payroll transfer before proceeding.

…

Anna Taylor

…

From: Hansel Williams, Human Resources, Radisson Munitions Plant

Elsa grits her teeth, before slamming a stamp so hard into the letter that a snowflake is left imprinted on the red ink.

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