"The second letter came from a city named Toska. The ice of Toska is clear and blue as crystal, painstakingly carved—arched hallways, tiled rooftops, doors as tall and intricate as a mansion. The people here used to wear spikes on their soles, so as to not slip, but they panicked over the cracks that the spikes left on the ice; now, they hang hemp ropes alongside sidewalks, so passerby can hold onto them to keep their balance and the ice can remain pristine. Every breath lingers as mist in the air.
"To get my letter, I went deep, where it gets dark, blue turning green turning black shot through with white streaks of trapped air. There was a low rumbling that reminded me of the ocean—have you ever been to the ocean, before everything went—oh, never mind—the ocean, if you know what that is, slowly getting louder the deeper I walked. There were no ropes here, but the ground was gashed through from spiked shoes, forming deep cracks pooling with half-frozen meltwater.
"It was here, then, that I came across the bodies.
"There were three of them: one tall, one short, and one small enough to fit in their linked arms. I could tell from their padded apparel and spiked soles that they must have been explorers from Toska, an occupation that had gone out of fashion by the time I arrived, for it was seen as unseemly to keep sending people to die in the depths of the ice. Besides, wouldn't the warm bodies risk melting the foundations?
"The tallest one had a letter in their fist, just barely visible through the thin dusting of frost that glittered over them all. I was very carefully as I extracted it—I was afraid of accidentally breaking a piece of them off—it wasn't enough, two-thirds of each four fingers crumbled away at my touch. It was— The sensation— Undescribable. I never thought human flesh could behave like that. I never thought that color was even possible.
"The letter was all I could take with me. I didn't have room for anything else. And believe me, I tried, I had to try, there were three people dead and—and when I went to Toska's governors, when I told them of the bodies I found, the bodies I left behind—I tried but they were too heavy—they told me that they knew. They told me that they were all perfectly aware of the necropolis in their glaciers. They told me, not unkindly, that the dead were mourned, and their bodies were unneeded. It was their tradition.
"Listen: I have seen many traditions. Cities where the bones of the dead are refashioned into instruments played during baby showers. Cities where the blood of the dead is drained into vials and given to their loved ones for remembrance. Cities where it is custom to turn dead flesh into compost to then grow fruit trees; the taste of their peach jams is truly stunning. I have very rarely come across traditions where the dead are cast aside. I . . . don't begrudge them for it, the uncountable dead, the immeasurable grief. But I think I will always regret not turning around and going back down. Those three lost souls deserved more than what they were given.
"I delivered this third letter to a prisoner in Parole who I stopped at the sight of, for their resemblance to the tallest body was so striking, I wondered for a moment if they had returned to life. They were very quiet when I gave them the letter, paper still warped and stained with water, torn where fingers had dug in too tight. From the look in their eyes, I knew they recognized the handwriting.
"I didn't tell them about the bodies. They knew, somehow, as soon as I pulled out that letter. I was guiltily grateful for it. I do not like being made to explain."
