This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice.

The first snowfall of winter always reminded Elsa Andersen of her grandmother's stories. As she pressed her face against the frost-covered window of her small apartment in Copenhagen, watching the delicate flakes dance in the amber glow of the streetlights, she could almost hear Gran's voice weaving tales of ice palaces and magical mirrors, of a Snow Queen who ruled over a realm where winter never ended.

"Just stories," Elsa whispered to herself, her breath fogging the glass. But even as she said it, she felt the familiar tingle in her fingertips, the same sensation she'd experienced since childhood whenever the temperature dropped. She pulled her hands away from the window and tucked them into the sleeves of her sweater, watching as the frost on the glass began to form intricate patterns—too intricate, too perfect to be natural.

Twenty-three years old and still afraid of her own reflection in winter windows. Elsa shook her head and turned away, padding across the hardwood floor to her small kitchen. Tomorrow marked the first anniversary of Gran's passing, and with it, the reading of the final portion of her will. The lawyer had been cryptic about it, mentioning only that there was "one last bequest" that couldn't be distributed until exactly one year after her death.

The kettle whistled, and Elsa poured the steaming water over a chamomile tea bag, inhaling the soothing scent. As she carried her mug to the small dining table, her gaze fell upon the leather-bound journal that had arrived that morning, delivered by a courier with no return address. The moment she'd touched it, that strange tingling sensation had intensified, and she'd spent the entire day avoiding it, as if the journal might bite her.