The house was still, the only sound the faint crackling of the dying fire in the hearth. Hansel and Gretel lay curled in their beds, the soft rise and fall of their breaths the only sign of life in the quiet room. Rosina sat alone by the fire, her violet cloak draped around her shoulders like a shadow. Her sharp eyes, usually filled with authority, now stared blankly into the flames.
Her thoughts were a storm, churning and relentless. She had seen it before—the hollowed faces of abandoned children, the ache of loneliness etched into their bones. But Hansel and Gretel were different. Their pain struck something raw inside her, something she had thought long buried.
Her hands clenched in her lap. The memories came unbidden: the soft flutter of hope with each pregnancy, the slow, creeping fear with every passing week, and finally, the crushing grief when it all slipped away. Again and again, her body had failed her, robbing her of the children she had longed for. And when the final curtain of menopause had fallen, it had felt like the cruelest betrayal of all.
She had filled the void as best she could, fostering abandoned children, offering them the love she had never been able to give her own. But Hansel and Gretel… they were different. Their resilience, their fire—it stirred something in her she hadn’t felt in years. She wanted to protect them, to nurture them. Perhaps even to call them her own.
But then there were their parents. Rosina’s jaw tightened as she thought of the faceless man and woman who had left their children to starve. How dare they? How dare they throw away what she had spent her life mourning? Their cruelty, their selfishness—it was a slap in the face, a searing reminder of everything she had lost.
Her breathing quickened, her hands trembling as anger coiled tight in her chest. The flames in the hearth flickered, their light dimming as Rosina’s thoughts darkened. Her imagination, usually so carefully controlled, spilled over, unbound by the weight of her rage. Shadows flickered against the walls, taking on strange, writhing shapes—phantoms of her sorrow and fury.
Unbeknownst to her, the spill reached farther than the walls. Hansel, asleep in his bed, stirred uneasily as Rosina’s thoughts seeped into his dreams. In his mind, the images twisted and blurred—visions of a younger Rosina, her hands clutching at her stomach as she cried out in grief. The walls of the dream cracked and shifted, her anger pouring in like a tidal wave. Hansel’s chest tightened as he was pulled deeper, the edges of the dream suffocating him.
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His eyes snapped open, his breath ragged. He sat up in bed, his gaze drawn instinctively toward the hearth. There, in the dim light, he saw her.
Rosina sat hunched in her chair, her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and when she finally looked up, her eyes glistened with tears. The sight of her—usually so composed, so unshakable—was enough to freeze Hansel in place.
She noticed him then, her tear-streaked face twisting in a mixture of shock and shame. “Hansel,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I… I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Hansel didn’t respond immediately. The dream lingered in his mind, vivid and unsettling. “I saw you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “You were… crying.”
Rosina’s expression hardened for a moment, the mask of authority slipping back into place. But it crumbled just as quickly, her shoulders slumping as the weight of her emotions pressed down on her.
“I was,” she admitted, her voice raw. She turned away, wiping her face with a trembling hand. “Sometimes even I can’t keep everything inside.”
Hansel hesitated, then slid out of bed and crossed the room. He stopped a few feet from her, unsure of what to do. “Why… why were you crying?”
Rosina let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “It’s not something you need to worry about, child. I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you, not the other way around.”
“But I do worry,” Hansel said softly. “You’ve done so much for us. I don’t want you to feel… alone.”
The words struck something deep inside her, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a kind boy, Hansel. Kinder than most. But this… this is my burden, not yours.”
Hansel frowned, his gaze searching hers. “Is it about us? About our parents?”
Rosina’s lips tightened, and her hand dropped to her lap. “Yes,” she said finally. “And no. Your parents’ actions… they’re unforgivable. But they remind me of things I’ve lost. Things I can never have.”
Hansel’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he didn’t press her. Instead, he reached out and placed his small hand over hers. “You have us now,” he said quietly.
Rosina’s breath hitched, and for a moment, she couldn’t look at him. She squeezed his hand gently, her voice breaking as she replied, “Yes, I do. And I intend to keep you.”
They sat like that for a long while, the fire slowly burning itself out. Rosina’s tears dried, her breathing steadied, and Hansel stayed by her side, his presence a quiet reminder that even in grief, there could be hope.