Behind me, the cottage door is shut. It always will be now. I don't turn around. I don't cry. Not yet.

Ahead, the woods stretch dark and endless—roots like grasping fingers, shadows pooling under the canopy. My mother said the village would take me in. That the miller's wife might have mercy. But the village is a half-day's walk east, and the sun is already bleeding orange through the clouds.

The wind carries a howl. Low. Distant. Something alive.

I pull my hood up tighter, my fingers brushing the rough wool. It's all I have now. My red hood. A basket with a torn strap. And a name I'm not supposed to say out loud.

I take a step forward. The leaves crunch under my boots.

A girl sits on a fallen log, legs swinging idly. She looks about my age. Maybe older. Her hair is dark, cropped short, and her eyes catch the dying light like amber.

She doesn't look scared. She looks curious.