Chapter Text
Quarantined.
Back when Elsa had moved into her new duplex, she wasn't the only one to have been worried how she would adjust to such a new change. Once all the boxes were opened and every piece of furniture and decor was arranged haphazardly in any place it could be, Anna had plopped herself down on the couch, opened a can of real lemonade and looked to Elsa.
"Think you'll manage fine here?" she'd said with heavy breaths.
"Umm.""
"Think you'll like it?"
There wasn't any reason not to, Elsa had thought. The word 'charming' had come to mind the first time she had checked out the place with Anna and Kristoff. With it's spacious plan, a balcony and a veranda, pet-friendly policy and great location, it made for a good home. It couldn't not.
"I'll have time to get used to it." She had said, taking a swig of mixed fruit herself. "No rush."
And look where we are now, she quibbles with herself.
Quarantined.
Unable to go anywhere, meet anyone, do anything except stay in her apartment. She had all the time in the world to get used to it now.
No rush. Not even a little.
Elsa sighs an acquiescing breath, leaning her hands and head down on the veranda railing. She stares blankly down at the road damp in patches and the yellow streetlights glowing in the dark-blue dusk that illuminated everything, but only faintly. Barely any cars passed by to interrupt the evening silence, and the fresh breeze carried with it the smell of a quenched drizzle, plus a hint of homemade stew.
It's not so bad, A second part of her, done with hearing Elsa gripe, chimes in.
I have a stable job, a cozy dwelling, and maybe this lockdown can be an opportunity to indulge into my hobbies. It's self-isolation, after all. How hard can it be? Especially for me? I think I might actually end up enjoying myself—
Her phone beeps a notification, snapping her out of her thoughts. Anna and Elsa had been discussing the lock down situation just this morning, talking precautionary measures and asking after each other's work-from-home situations. It was most likely her little sister again, either checking in again or wanting to see Olaf to cheer herself up.
To her surprise, the notification turns out to be an email, sent from an address Elsa did not recognize. 'Nattura, Honeymaren', 'Ahtohallan Apartments Newsletter Bulletin for June' read the sender and the subject respectively. The body of the email was a basic, simplistic text that essentially encapsulated the COVID crisis and it's guidelines and platitudes, on par with any email being sent by everyone and their mother right about now. There was some extra information about new building policies introduced in light of the pandemic, such as contact-less deliveries on orders, but apart from that —
Wait .
What's that at the end?
… And last but not least, a hearty welcome to our building's newest resident, Elsa Arendelle of 201.Wish you a happy and safe stay here!
For any queries, complaints and/or suggestions, please reach us at [email protected] or contact us at ...
Wasn't somebody supposed to mention there was a monthly bulletin for the building residents I would be included in, or was I supposed to stare dumbly at my phone and find out myself?
She takes a seat on the couch, and Olaf does on her lap. Was receiving a bulletin just a common thing nobody cared to mention about? Elsa had lived in a college dorm before this flat and with her parents before that, and she hadn't had much experience with newsletters and how to handle them. And being mentioned directly, was that normal too? Was she supposed to reply to them? Or was ignoring them the done thing? Unless that was considered rude? Most importantly, why is adult life so stupid and confusing?
"What are we going to do about this now, Olaf?" she scratches his chin, noting he has already assumed a catloaf position and closed his eyes.
Oh, I see how it is, she thinks. I'm in the middle of a social anxiety attack and you can't even be bothered to stay awake. Man, you know what? I wish I was a cat too.
Who is Elsa even supposed to ask about this situation? She isn't familiar with any of her neighbours. She doesn't even know who they are and where they live. No idea who even 'Nattura, Honeymaren' is. Heck, she doesn't even know if the only other flat on the same floor as her is occupied or not.
Again, Elsa scrolls over and over the curious email. At least the mailing list of the email would contain the names of all the people the newsletter would be sent to, which meant all the neighbours Elsa did not know. And as anyone with a phone and a working wifi is aware, a name and a Google search goes a long way.
In another surprising twist however, the recipient list reveals one and only one name the bulletin was sent to: Elsa Arendelle.
Is this a mistake? was Elsa's first thought. Maybe Honeymaren Nattura accidently sent this email separately to everyone. But that doesn't sound very plausible, considering how sending one group email versus sending the same email several times manually weren't one erroneous click away from each other. Perhaps this Honeymaren Nattura was just not that tech-savvy, probably someone elderly and didn't know how to send group emails, and sent out individual emails everytime? That seemed more plausible, and Elsa had received the first and only email to deduce it from.
But if she's elderly, maybe she's expecting me to thank her in response? And if she's not tech-savvy and elderly, what if she's expecting me to thank her in person?
Well, that one's still doable.
Now, Elsa is in no way or shape going near an old woman physically. There's Covid for one; and the fact that she doesn't even know where Mrs. Nattura lives for seconds. Instead, she copies the contact number provided at the end of the bulletin and dials it up. Seeing as how Honeymaren Nattura has provided her personal email address in the same space and capacity as this phone number, one could safely assume that's her personal number too. And the format matches to boot.
Better get this over with before it becomes something I keep reminding and feeling guilty about not doing for the next six months.
Social situations are a bit precarious for Elsa, that's true. But old people? They are her absolute favourite.
That's because they usually tend to use social media about as much as Elsa (which means zilch) and always seem happy for the company. She even gets a slight superiority complex sometimes when they praise her for not being like other screen-glued kids of her generation who won't come and see them in person. And the sweets, how could Elsa even forget about the baked goods and candies they demand to stuff down her throats until she's full past her forehead?
Honestly, Elsa can't wait for the day when she's old herself. Then finally she'll be able to fulfill her destiny as the reclusive social misfit cat lady — just like she is now — except everyone will assume it's because of her age then. What a sweet gig.
"Hello?" A husky, smooth voice breaks Elsa out of her thoughts.
That doesn't sound like an elderly person.
"Hi, I'm Elsa Arendelle from 201. I was hoping I could speak to Mrs. Honeymaren Nattura, please?"
"It's Miss, and she's speaking." The voice replies, a lilt of amusement apparent.
As if sensing her confusion and freezing in place from it, Olaf decides — in that same moment — to flee from her lap and abandon her in her time of need.
Maybe I should consider being a reclusive social misfit dog lady instead.
"Hello? Are you still there?" Honeymaren asks, after not hearing any reply from Elsa for a few seconds too many.
"Ummm…"
Springing her mind back into action, Elsa stands up and walks back to the veranda she was in the evening. A bit of movement and fresh air should help, she prays.
"Well, I just received your email bulletin and I wanted to thank you for including me in the newsletter and for your kind words."
"Oh, sure. Is that why you're calling?"
"Uh. Yeah?"
"Aww, that's nice of you. My emails usually go ignored, I think this is the first time I'm hearing any kind of a response to it. You're an old fashioned one, aren't you?"
"Yep, you could say that." Elsa's voice sounds muffled from where she's buried her face in her hand. "It's more like I haven't received a lot of newsletters in my life, just wasn't sure what the protocol was around it."
Honeymaren laughs — high pitched, free of any kind of mockery — and it makes Elsa raise her head back up. Any thoughts she had of Honeymaren as an old woman vanish away with the wash of that laugh.
"In that case, remind me next time and I'll teach you the proper protocol complete with the passwords and secret handshakes and everything."
Elsa giggles herself, feeling lighter knowing Honeymaren has taken everything in humor.
"We can't shake hands, remember? Bullet point number three: 'Maintain physical distance at all times'? I thought you were the one writing the newsletter? "
"Good to know there's at least one person out there who reads my emails. Finally. I'm kind of flattered. "
"Oh right! That reminds me, I meant to ask you something."
"Sure, go ahead."
"Yeah, so, why am I the only recipient of your newsletter? Was it a mistake of some kind? Or do you just like to send your emails individually? "
"No, no." Honeymaren answers, her tone explanatory. "There's no mistake and I certainly don't send group emails individually. Why would anyone even do that? When I've got the miracle of CC at the click of my mouse? Please, that just sounds barbaric."
"Okay," A cold breeze runs across Elsa's face and hair as she smiles into the phone. " So why, then?"
" You were the only one who received that email," she says, matter-of-factly "because you were the only one who was meant to receive that email. "
"Uh-uh, okay. And what is that supposed to mean?" Elsa leans on the parapet again, the way she did when she was breathing in the deep, rich blue silence of the evening after an early June shower. It seems even richer now . "Am I the only other person living here?"
"No, no — okay. Are you busy right now? And do you have some time to spare? Because we can pick this up again some other time."
" Go right ahead." Elsa replies. I have all the time in the world.
"Okay, so Ahtohallan Apartments consists of six units. Two on the ground floor, two on the first, and two on the top last; all of them duplexes, right?"
"Right."
"So at the ground floor we've got the Olsens in 001 — that's just below you — a sweet couple in their seventies going on eighties. Their opposite 002 is actually also theirs — well, it's their son's — but he and his family are based in Arendelle city and they only visit during holidays and events and such, so it's mostly empty. Then on the first floor is 101 — also below you — which is unoccupied and currently on sale. In 102 we do technically have a tenant, but he left the country temporarily pre-covid to visit his family in The Southern Isles and with the current travel scenario, I don't think he'll be coming back anytime soon — so yeah, it's empty indefinitely. Although — full disclosure, okay? — let's just say that you're not gonna miss Hans Westergård much, and I most definitely will not at all.
" So yeah, that about sums it up, you're the only one on the mailing list because the only other residents are Hans Westergård — who's not in the country at the moment, leave alone this building — and the Olsens, who prefer their newsletter in the printed format anyways — and which I do so; two fresh copies, painstakingly , delivered on the front of their doorway every month without fail. There you go. Satisfied?"
"Wow. I mean , thanks." Elsa runs her hand through her hair, surprised how engaging Honeymaren was. She isn't used to being talked to that much by someone who wasn't Anna. Cars going back home sound softly in the distance, their headlights shining what little spotlight the road revels in.
"Thanks for briefing me on all of that. I truly appreciate it. I know I wasn't able to have a proper housewarming or meet-and-greet or anything of the sort, so this has been very useful. Again, thank you so much."
"Please, stop saying that. It's no problem. Anything else I can help you with?" There's a shuffle sounding on Honeymaren's end.
Elsa is about to say 'no', when out of nowhere — through the haze created by the coldly rustling wind, a long warm chat and smiling without realizing for the past however many minutes— something clicks.
"Wait. You didn't tell me who lived on the top second floor — apart from me, I mean. And you didn't tell which unit you lived in.?"
The phone call clicks, signaling being cut. Elsa looks at her phone screen, confirming it.
"Hey," the voice — rich and sweet, she remembers (how could she not, she's been listening to it for the past several minutes) — calls her from the opposite direction, to her right.
Standing there, on the balcony diagonally above her (—
where the bedroom balcony for 202 should be — )
stood a woman in her mid-twenties, tawny-skinned and amber-eyed and full-lipped
and prettier than street lights shining on a rain-damp road.
"Did you figure it out yet? It's me, Maren."