A Dear Sister's Frosty Advice

20251215

Written for Luna Asli Kolcu’s “Myths of Winter - Week 3” event.

I was surprised to get a knock at my door, and shocked it was a postie. They never come out here; I have to pick up from the village shop. Yet here he was on my doorstep, in the traditional coat and cap with a worn leather satchel.
“Letter for one Reese Timpson.”
Without waiting for confirmation he shoved the silvery envelope into my hands. I accepted, could hardly not at that point, and nearly dropped it with a yelp. It was cold! Like a handful of snow! But the freezing melted away in an instant, leaving the envelope a normal glossy white.
Was frost covering it?
“See? It’s for you.” The postie says, as if I’d questioned him loud, and as if the letter freezing in his bag meant anything other than he ought to wrap things up better!
But before I find words he’s already tromping down my front path. As he lets himself out the gate I realise he’s not wearing gloves.
Given how the frost melted the moment I touched the envelope, why did it not defrost in his…? Well, I suppose his fingers would be icicles, walking miles over the heath like that.
Closing the door firmly on the winter breeze I take the letter to my table/desk and fish the rarely-used letter opener from the stationary box. I’m somewhat hesitant to open the envelope, partly because of the strange delivery and partly because it has no address, or return address, or stamp. There’s not even my name scrawled on it.
Of course the postie could’ve been given directions separate to the letter, but that seems awfully suspicious. Is this some prank? Have I somehow managed to offend someone enough to get them to send anthrax, or whatever nasty thing it is you send to people these days? I can’t think how. For all people complain about inaccurate weather reports I’d not heard of anyone taking it out on meteorological data analysts.
Just in case, I open the envelope facing away from me, at arms length. Nothing bursts out. Not even a glitter bomb. When I peer inside I find only a folded piece of paper, which I extract and open with my salad tongs.
That handwriting.
I drop the tongs and gasp for air. Seeing the once-familiar elaborate curls of my sister’s writing was a punch in the gut. Like being shoved into a frozen lake without warning.
What kind of sick prank was this? I would’ve preferred a glitter bomb! Emotional messes are far harder to clean up. And grief had proved to be the stickiest, most relentless mess of all.
I almost threw the letter away then and there. But it fell open when I dropped it, the words staring up at me. Without meaning to the first sentences sank in;
[Ritty, you’re being an eejit. Even for you.]
Well. They’d gone to the trouble of perfecting my dear sister’s manner of address. To a deeply unnerving degree. I don’t think there’s anyone left who know my middle name, much less that as a youngster I’d gone by “RIT”.
Had this horrible person gotten hold of Annalise’s old letters to me? I thought I’d shredded them all before moving.
My eyes slid down the page, seeking a slip-up.
[I know losing us all was hard on you. And I am sorry for not being there for you anymore. You know I didn’t want to go like that!]
No. Nobody would’ve wanted to die like that. Even now thinking of her in that hospital bed, hacking up her own lungs, is wont to give me nightmares.
[But tragedy is no excuse to turn into a miserable little sod! Giving up all your hobbies and breaking ties with all your friends and moving to the middle of nowhere?? You know what happened to grandpa so WHY ARE YOU EMULATING HIM?]
The capitals are written in sharp, heavily pressed lines which, rather than meeting tidily end-to-end, haphazardly cross like clashing sabres. Seeing that familiar angry ‘tell’ was when I picked up the letter and started reading it seriously.
Inexplicable though this was… I felt increasingly certain this wasn’t a forgery. Nor could this have possibly been written before she died.
[Get your head out of your arse, Reese Irving Timpson! You’ve gone and bought the land and cottage now, so I suppose you’ll just have to make the most of it. At least talk to people in the village. Use your internet for something other than work! Reconnect with friends. Find some nerdy board to be cringy on. It’ll be good for you.
And while I can’t recommend you try swimming around here, go for walks or something! Get back to work on that book, too. Just because I won’t be there to read through it for you doesn’t mean nobody will. You can still make it good! At the very least you can make it happen. That’s still something you know.]
I hold the letter safely in front of me, away from the tears dribbling down my face.
This was Anni. It was exactly what - well, it wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear from her, but it was what I sorely needed.
[I can only send one sheet so hopefully you’ll figure the rest out yourself. You’re not daft, so you’ve no excuse acting like it! Next year I’d better be able to congratulate you on something. Get to it!]
Underneath, in decorative swirls, was the usual “Lots of love Anni”.
I close my eyes. Breathe deep. Clutch the letter to my chest.
“I… I’m not gonna manage anything tonight.” I whisper, hoping she can hear me. “I’m sorry, sis, this’s… too much of a shock. But…”
I press the letter to my lips and promise “I’ll start tomorrow. Pick one thing and tick it off, like you always said. I’ll figure it out. Before next year.”
Warmth blossoms on the paper against my cheek. A kiss. And that dreadful weight melts away.

Prompt was “A messenger arrives with a letter sealed in frost. The seal can only be broken by the person it’s meant for. It’s meant for you. The sender has been dead for decades.”