The evening settled over the house, the light from the hearth casting soft, flickering shadows across the walls. Hansel and Gretel sat at the table, picking at slices of gingerbread Rosina had prepared earlier. The room felt quieter than usual, as though the house itself was listening.

Rosina leaned against the counter, her violet cloak trailing behind her like a second shadow. Her sharp eyes, softened by an unusual gentleness, studied the children in silence for a long moment.

Finally, she broke the stillness. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” she said, her voice calm but deliberate. “Where are your parents?”

Hansel froze, the piece of gingerbread halfway to his mouth. Gretel stiffened, her fingers clenching around her cup. They avoided Rosina’s gaze, suddenly very interested in their food.

Rosina tilted her head, her silver curls catching the firelight. “You can’t expect me to believe you just wandered into my house by chance. Children don’t belong in a forest like this—not without reason.”

“We—” Hansel started, his voice faltering. He glanced at Gretel, who shook her head sharply, her expression guarded. He sighed, lowering his gaze. “We were left.”

“Left?” Rosina repeated, her tone growing sharper. “Left by whom?”

“Our parents,” Gretel said flatly, her voice clipped and defensive. “They didn’t want us anymore.”

Hansel winced, the words hitting him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to protest, but Gretel’s glare stopped him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and her jaw was set in a way that dared anyone to challenge her.

Rosina watched them, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she sighed, crossing her arms. “I see,” she said softly. “And you don’t want to talk about it.”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Gretel snapped. “They’re gone. That’s it.”

Hansel glanced up at Rosina, his voice trembling. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

Rosina’s gaze softened, though her voice remained steady. “I can’t answer that, child. But I can tell you this: whatever their reasons, their actions are not your fault.”

Gretel scoffed, her anger bubbling to the surface. “Easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like. You weren’t there.”

Rosina straightened, her sharp tongue flicking to life. “You’re right—I don’t know. But I’d like to. I could dive into your dreams tonight, you know. Pick through your memories, see everything you’ve seen. It would take no effort at all.”

Both children stared at her, their faces pale.

“But I won’t,” Rosina continued, her tone softening again. “Because that’s not how trust works. If you want me to know, you’ll tell me in your own time. Until then, I’ll respect your privacy.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on the room.

Finally, Hansel broke it, his voice barely above a whisper. “We didn’t have enough food. That’s why they left us. They said… they said they’d come back, but…” His voice cracked, and he ducked his head, tears spilling onto the table.

Gretel reached for him, her anger crumbling as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “They won’t come back,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “We have to accept that.”

Rosina watched them, her sharp features softening with something like sorrow. She didn’t speak for a long moment, letting the children hold each other in their grief.

When she finally did, her voice was firm but kind. “You’re safe here. Whatever happens outside these walls, this house will protect you. But you must respect it—and each other.”

Hansel sniffled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Gretel nodded, though she didn’t look up.

Rosina stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Hansel’s shoulder and another on Gretel’s. “You’ve been through more than most children your age should ever have to endure,” she said softly. “But that doesn’t mean it has to define you. This is your fresh start—if you’re willing to take it.”

The children didn’t respond, but the weight in the room seemed to ease slightly. Rosina withdrew her hands, stepping back toward the hearth.

“Get some rest,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “Tomorrow is a new day, and this house still has plenty to teach you.”

As the children shuffled off to bed, Rosina remained by the fire, staring into the flames with a distant look in her eyes. For all her sharp-tongued confidence, there was an ache in her chest—a sorrow she didn’t quite understand.

“I won’t dive into their dreams,” she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. “But I wish I knew how to take their pain away.”

The fire crackled in response, as if agreeing with her.