January 29, 2026

Anne arrived in the village three days after the solstice, sent ahead by the new doctor, Miranda C. Cross. The residents had reported odd behavior in a snowman built by a local boy on Christmas Eve. It moved, they claimed. Turned its head. Shifted its arms. Nothing caught on video, but no one laughed. Pets refused to pass the yard.

Dr. Eleanor Grage was away finishing her sabbatical, and Tom—well, Tom hadn’t been the same since the hall with no end. He was somewhere warm, safe. Healing. So it was Anne alone who took the case, though she’d grown less skittish than she once was.

She met the boy first. He was seven and wore too-big boots and a nervous glance.

“You named it?” she asked.

He nodded. “You have to. If you want it to stay.”

“What name?”

He whispered it, but Anne didn’t understand. It slid through her memory like melting snow.

The snowman stood at the far end of the yard, built with perfect symmetry. Three balls, decreasing in size. Coal eyes. Carrot nose. But the arms—those weren’t sticks. They were carved bone. And where a smile might have been, a faint line of ash.

Dr. Miranda C. Cross arrived at dusk. She wore no hat, no gloves, only a tailored black coat and glasses that caught the streetlamps in glints.

“Cross is short for something Hungarian,” she said, by way of introduction. “Don’t ask. You won’t pronounce it right.”

Anne filled her in. Dr. Cross listened, her fingers twitching like they were reading the frost.

“Zimná panna,” she said finally. “In my homeland, we know of these. Snow brides. Born from unspoken wishes. Or worse—unspeakable ones.”

That night, the snowman disappeared.

By dawn, there was a woman in its place. A figure of snow, unmistakably female. Smooth and curved. Anatomically exact, though obscenely elegant. She stood without shame. Unclothed. Unmoving. Staring at Anne’s window.

Anne began to change. Her hands trembled when she touched metal. Her voice, once steady, cracked when she read aloud. Mirrors showed her slower than she moved.

“It wants your life,” Cross said over coffee. “It mimics. Learns. Then replaces.”

Anne scoffed. Until she saw the snow-woman in town. Buying bread. Laughing with a stranger. Wearing her scarf.

Dr. Cross prepared a trap. Salt and ash, fused with magnetics. Old tech, older magic.

“We lure her in,” Cross said. “But the boy’s word must be unwound. Only you can do that.”

Anne stood in the circle as the snow-woman approached, hips swaying like branches in wind. Her lips opened. She spoke Anne’s name—backwards.

Anne’s knees buckled.

“Say yours,” Cross commanded. “Say it in reverse.”

“No,” Anne said through chattering teeth. “I’ll give her mine. Not yours.”

Anne whispered her own name backwards. The snow-woman paused. Then melted into a pile of slush that smelled faintly of lavender. And grief.

In the days after, Anne stared at her reflection too long. Drew snowflakes on windows that never frosted. Asked strangers if they’d seen her twin.

Dr. Cross stayed a while. Then left without goodbye.

What happened to Anne after that night? And Dr. Cross? Well… no one quite agrees. But if you see two shadows where only one should fall—don’t turn around.