That night, long after Adelheid had retreated to the small bedroom she shared with Ruprecht, Hansel whispered from his bedding. “Why does she hate me so much?”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Gretel replied, her voice softer than usual. “She hates what you remind her of.”

“What does that mean?” Hansel asked, confused.

Gretel sighed, leaning closer. “You remind her that you’re not hers,” she said. “And she doesn’t like being reminded.”

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Hansel’s brow furrowed, his small hands tightening around his carving. “That’s not fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair,” Gretel said sharply. Her voice softened slightly. “But if you want to survive, you have to stop expecting her to treat you the way she treats me.”

Hansel was quiet for a moment before asking, “Do you think Father will fix this?”

“No,” Gretel said firmly. “He doesn’t know how.”

“Then what do we do?” Hansel asked, his voice trembling.

“We figure it out ourselves,” Gretel said, her tone unyielding. She stared at the ceiling, her expression hidden in the darkness. “And we don’t wait for them to save us.”