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He's been sending her letters while in his decay. She's trying to forget he's ever existed. There's a box underneath her bed that's pregnant with parchments left unopened, and an unspoken rhythm between the both of them. She prefers this kind of silence, even so it has always nagged at the back of her mind, even so her fingers itched to touch each letter to see if they were real. It's a privilege she's planned on taking advantage of, but has been broken before she truly could when the decree she'd given five years ago backfires.
He's back, and there's no room for ignorance any longer.
Ignorance is bliss, but Elsa might just learn that sometimes, it wasn't.