The forest was sweet.
Sickeningly sweet.
At first glance, it seemed a paradise. Syrup clung to the air, glittering like fine dust in the dim shafts of moonlight. Branches bent under impossible colors—gumdrop red, spun-cotton pink, crystalline blue that dripped like frozen syrup from the boughs. The ground crunched beneath Hansel's feet with brittle sugar glass that cracked under each step, only to re-form moments later.
Hansel hurried forward, a bundle of scraps clutched in his sticky hands. His shirt was torn, knees scraped, and yet his eyes shone with the feverish delight of a child who had not eaten in days.
Gretel followed more cautiously, her stomach knotted in hunger and dread. The air itself felt heavy, viscous, as though the forest wanted something from them. She watched her brother stumble over a coil of licorice root, teeth bared like a wild animal, and barely managed to pull him back.
"Careful," she hissed. "You'll get yourself killed."
Hansel grinned through cracked, syrup-stained lips. "Then at least I won't be hungry anymore."
The words pressed against Gretel's chest. Hunger. Always hunger. It gnawed at her, but not as strongly as the resentment growing inside her. She had saved him too many times. Pulled him from traps, dragged him from the ovens, dragged him from his own foolishness. And still, he ate as though nothing mattered but himself.
The forest whispered.
It had been whispering since the first night they entered. The words were thin at first, indistinct: a rustle of leaves, a soft murmur from candy-colored branches.
The girl burns.The boy fattens.The story ends.
Gretel pressed her hands to her ears, but Hansel laughed through it. She knew he didn't hear—or perhaps he chose not to.
She felt the seed of something sharp take root: why should she shoulder the burden of this tale while he feasted? Why should she burn herself to protect him, to feed him into this cycle?
They walked for hours, or perhaps minutes—the forest had no sense of time. Sky and earth blurred together, sugar and shadow intermingling. Colors brightened, dulled, shifted, like the scene itself refused to stay still. And then they saw it.
The cottage.
It rose from the clearing, impossibly large, its walls thick with gingerbread that sagged under the weight of caramel shingles. Windows glimmered with sugared panes. Smoke, not gray but thick as spun candy, puffed lazily from a wafer chimney.
Hansel gasped. "The house… it's here again."
Gretel swallowed. The whispers surged, louder now, not distant but inside her skull. They were no longer warnings. They were suggestions, commands:
You could rule. You could burn the boy yourself. You could take the fire. Why serve when you could wield it?
She shivered. "We shouldn't… we can't…"
But her voice sounded small, even to her own ears. Hansel didn't hear, or he didn't care. He ran toward the house, tearing chunks from the walls, stuffing them into his mouth like a starving beast. Crumbs scattered down his shirt. Gretel's stomach churned—both from hunger and disgust.
The Witch emerged, not as the hunched, frail woman of stories, but tall, elegant, her gown flowing like molten sugar. Her eyes were molten amber, her lips too red, too wide. She observed the children with a patience that was almost cruel.
"Well, well…" she cooed. "Little birds, finally home. Hungry, aren't you?"
Hansel nodded vigorously, chewing, already half-lost in delight.
Gretel's stomach sank. Her hand moved to the oven's iron door reflexively. She remembered the fire. The last time. Every time. And yet… the whispers murmured again.
You could control it. You could be stronger than the story itself. The girl who burns is a weak girl. Take it. Own it.
The Witch's gaze shifted to her, as though acknowledging her thought. A small smile curved her lips. "Oh… you're thinking. Good. You're learning."
Gretel's hands trembled. Not from fear, not entirely. From a new sensation: power. Something raw, untested, and frightening. Her fingers itched to reach the hearth. To touch the flame. To bend the story.
Hansel, oblivious, continued gorging himself. Gretel's resentment flared hotter than the oven. He had no clue. No concern. Always the little boy, always taking, always eating, always surviving while she risked everything.
The whispers became a chorus now, echoing around the sugar-coated room:
Take control. Rule the fire. Feed the boy when you wish, not when told. The story is yours if you claim it.
Gretel's eyes flicked to the oven. The flames danced as if responding to her gaze. Her hand hovered above the metal. She could feel the heat, the hunger, the story bending around her attention.
And then, she reached.
Hansel finally noticed and squealed in delight, thinking she was joining him in the feast. Gretel did not. She tugged at a glowing ember in the fireplace, feeling its warmth thread into her palms like a living thing. The fire responded, licking along her fingertips without burning. She gasped, and a faint flicker of amber glimmered in her eyes.
The Witch's lips curved knowingly. "Yes… yes… you see it now. You are not just a player. You can shape what comes next."
Gretel's chest swelled with a dangerous pride. She could take this story into her own hands. No more waiting. No more being dragged along. No more saving Hansel, only to be trapped again.
Her brother laughed and crumbled a piece of gingerbread over his tongue. "Gretel, eat! It's… it's amazing!"
"I'm not you," she said softly, almost to herself. "I don't need to be."
The fire pulsed at her words, and the Fades—faceless children lurking in the corners—paused in their whispering. They had been urging obedience, hunger, the endless cycle. Now they watched. Curious. Tentative.
Gretel glanced at Hansel, sticky and oblivious. Her lips curved. A new thought took root: if the story would always try to trap her, if it would never let her be innocent again… she would make herself the force that controlled it.
The Witch's song rose in soft, sugary notes. The candy house itself seemed to pulse with delight at Gretel's awakening.
Somewhere deep inside, the girl who had been frightened, trembling, hesitant, had died. In her place stood something sharper, hungrier—not naive, not small. She would not be the victim anymore.
Hansel didn't notice. He never did. He ate, oblivious.
And in that sugar-scented, whispering house, Gretel smiled.
Because she would burn the story. And yet, she would survive it.
The forest outside shivered in the sticky night air. The oven's mouth glowed with promise. The Fades leaned closer, whispering:
The girl rules now. The boy obeys. The story twists. The Teacher will come—but it may be too late.