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Summary
Elsa’s door is open.
Well, not open-open—it’s barely open, like, ajar? Orange candlelight seeps between the door and the jamb, flickering. All the breath leaves Anna in a rush. Her knees go to water and she stumbles over her own feet, staggers, catches herself and still almost drops the bun, grasping after it with nerveless fingers. Probably she squashes it some. Mouth agape, her heart knocking up into her neck, she stares at the door, expecting it to click closed again at any moment.
It doesn’t.