The house was alive with quiet motion. Hansel stood by the kitchen counter, nervously watching Rosina measure ingredients with the precision of a master craftsman. The copper pots and pans gleamed above them, as if watching the lesson unfold. Gretel, tasked with cleaning the sitting room, grumbled to herself as she dusted the shelves and muttered curses under her breath.

“Now, boy,” Rosina said sharply, snapping Hansel out of his reverie, “you’re not going to learn anything by staring at me like a dumbstruck chicken. Get the flour.”

Hansel fumbled for the jar of flour, nearly knocking over the sugar in his haste. Rosina shook her head, her silver curls bobbing. “Careful. The kitchen is your partner, not your servant. Treat it with respect, and it will treat you kindly.”

Hansel nodded, setting the jar down gently. “Like how it reacts to patience?”

Rosina’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Exactly. Now, measure two cups—precisely. No more, no less. Baking is magic, and magic respects balance.”

As Hansel focused on his task, Rosina’s gaze flicked toward the sitting room, where Gretel was noisily dragging a broom across the floor. The girl’s movements were sharp, almost angry, and the air around her seemed charged with tension.

She’s a storm waiting to break, Rosina thought to herself.

Her thoughts reached farther than she intended. Suddenly, she felt a flicker—a brush of Gretel’s mind, like a half-formed whisper. Curious, Rosina allowed her thoughts to stretch out, gently touching Gretel’s imagination. What she found there made her pause.

Gretel wasn’t thinking about the task at hand. Instead, her mind was a swirl of chaotic images—fragments of memory and emotion. Her parents’ faces loomed large, cold and distant. The dark forest where they had been left behind twisted around the edges of her thoughts, heavy with fear and resentment.

Without breaking her rhythm in the kitchen, Rosina reached out telepathically, projecting a thought into Gretel’s mind. It wasn’t words, exactly, but an idea—a sensation of calm curiosity, like the first question in a quiet conversation.

What’s bothering you, child?

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Gretel froze mid-swipe, the broom hovering above the floor. She glanced around the room, her heart pounding. “What the—” she muttered aloud, before realizing the voice wasn’t coming from outside.

In your head, yes, came Rosina’s wry response. Relax. I’m not here to pry—just to talk.

Gretel’s thoughts hardened, a wall of suspicion forming. You can do that? Just… talk to me like this?

Of course I can, Rosina replied, her tone light. But only if your mind lets me in. You’re stronger than you think, Gretel. Even now, you’re trying to keep me out.

Gretel scowled, her grip tightening on the broom. Maybe I don’t want you here.

Understandable, Rosina admitted. But you don’t have to keep everything locked up, you know. Sometimes, it helps to let someone see what’s hurting you.

Gretel’s thoughts flickered again, unbidden memories slipping past her defenses. The image of her father, his face hard with guilt as he turned away.

The wall cracked.

I hate them, Gretel thought, her own admission startling her. I hate them both. For leaving us. For giving up.

The words echoed in her mind, raw and jagged. She hadn’t realized how deeply the hatred had festered until now, and saying it—even silently—felt like ripping open an old wound.

Rosina’s response was quiet, almost tender. Hate is a heavy thing to carry, my dear. But it’s also honest. You don’t have to pretend you’re fine, not with me.

Gretel gritted her teeth. What else am I supposed to feel? They left us to die.

Rosina’s sharp tongue stayed silent, though her mind was a storm of thoughts. She could see Gretel’s pain as clearly as if it were her own. The girl’s anger, her despair—it was all justified. And yet, it stirred something darker in Rosina’s heart.

Her voice in Gretel’s mind remained calm. You feel what you feel, Gretel. There’s no shame in that. But don’t let your hatred define you. You’re more than what they’ve done to you.

Gretel didn’t respond, but her grip on the broom loosened. The anger in her thoughts ebbed slightly, replaced by a quiet exhaustion.

Back in the kitchen, Hansel was struggling to whisk the brownie batter, his movements clumsy. “Like this?” he asked nervously.

Rosina turned her attention back to him, snapping her fingers. “No, boy! Stir, don’t beat it into submission. You’re not fighting a war.”

Hansel grinned sheepishly, adjusting his movements. The batter began to smooth out, the rich, chocolaty scent filling the kitchen.

Gretel’s voice flickered back into Rosina’s mind, hesitant but clear. Do you think… we’ll ever stop being angry?

Rosina hesitated. That’s up to you, child. But anger doesn’t last forever. It fades, if you let it. You just have to decide what to do with the space it leaves behind.

The house settled around them, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. For the first time in what felt like forever, Gretel let the broom rest, her mind quieter than it had been in days.

And Rosina, ever sharp and composed, allowed herself a small, bitter smile.