Бесплатный фрагмент - Riding Hooded: The Dawn of Pain

The Name

Last week she turned twenty-one, and from that morning onward, her mother never spoke her name again — not out of anger, nor absentmindedness, but because the time had come. That was how it had always been in their house, for as long as anyone could remember: on a girl’s birthday, she ceased to be a daughter, and the silence began.

She used to be called all sorts of things — little swallow, mouseling, my sun — names spoken softly, tinged with care, with a tenderness that held a kind of fear, as though her mother did not so much love her as guard her, the way one shields a candle from the wind: something not yet ready to burn, but already forbidden to go out. And now she was not called at all. And in that silence there was more weight than in any word ever spoken.

She remembered hearing her mother call the older ones — three of them, across the years, each one by name, one final time. It always happened the night before the bundle appeared. The cloak. The silence. She hadn’t understood then — why a sister left for Grandmother’s, why no one spoke of her again, no candle, no memory, no tears — only Mother, who sometimes stared at the wall where there was no portrait, no name, only blank white space that, once, might have looked back at her.

The name that had once been hers vanished, as if washed away by rain or dried out by the wind, and in its place there was only one — unspoken, but understood, foreign and yet precise, like a glove sewn into the skin: Little Red Riding Hood.

Others had borne that name — she knew it. She’d heard it in whispers, glimpsed it in faded scraps of writing, learned it not from people, but from objects. Every girl who turned twenty-one, who took the cloak and walked into the woods, toward a grandmother no one had ever seen but everyone somehow knew — each of them was called by that name. As if Grandmother didn’t live anywhere, but waited inside anyone who left.

And on the morning she saw the bundle on the stool by the door — wrapped in canvas, tied with twine, and on top, the red cloak, slightly faded, mended at the hem — there was no fear. Not even a question. Only a strange sense of recognition, as though she hadn’t come to the bundle, but it had found its way to her, across long years filled with dreams, with omens, with silence.

Her mother, as always, explained nothing. She simply said, «You’ll take this to Grandmother.»

And when the girl asked, «Where does Grandmother live?», her mother replied, «You’ll remember.»

And in that moment, she did — not with her mind, but with her body, her bones, with a dream she’d had at seven, when an old woman came to their house, her whisper like her mother’s, only deeper. A voice that rustled, almost aloud:

«She will ask who I am. Say: a guest. And make sure she remembers the voice.»

And now she did. And she went.

The First Step

«Wash yourself properly,» her mother said, not looking at her. «All the way. Even under your nails.»

Then she left, leaving the door ajar — as if there was no point in hiding. As if everything beyond this moment was no longer her concern.

Red stood still for a long time, unmoving, as if she hadn’t heard. But she had. She just couldn’t move right away — not from fear, but from that strange weight that settles in the body when it’s told: today, you are more than flesh. Today, you are a message. A vessel. A bundle without wrapping.

The basin was already on the bench, beside it a jug, a block of hard soap, a gray cloth worn soft from washing. The room was narrow, low, dark, lit by slanted light from a window webbed with a trembling draft. On the wall — a mirror in an iron frame, old, blotched with time, stained with rust and the shadows of those who had looked before her.

She took off her dress — the same simple linen shift she wore most days — and stood in just her stockings. Then she rolled those down too, folded them neatly, and placed them on the stool. All of it — leisurely, as if she weren’t taking off clothes, but shedding a role. She stood barefoot, bare-skinned, with light trembling on her shoulders like a shadow.

She stepped to the mirror. The body staring back at her was familiar — and new. Still young, but already bearing those signs she used to eye with anxious pride. Her breasts — not large, but firm, with pink nipples taut from the cold. Her stomach — flat, with a soft dip of the navel. Her hips — wide, like her sister’s, the one who’d gone first. Her legs — strong, sun-browned, with a fine line of hair she’d shaved once, in secret, just to see.

But her face in the mirror was different. Not like the body. It looked aside, as if it knew more.

Her cheeks — a little hollow. Her lips — full, slightly parted, as if about to speak. Her eyebrows — defined. Her gaze — heavy, not with anger, but with the answer not yet given. Her neck — long. Her collarbones — sharp, like wings.

She ran her fingers across her belly, then higher, to her chest. She squeezed one breast — not from desire, but to check: do I still feel? She did. A tingling. A tickle. Alive.

She turned sideways. Looked at her back, her buttocks, the curve of her hip. There, in the mirror, stood a woman. Not yet ripe — but no longer a girl.

And in that moment, she felt it. Someone was near. Not footsteps. Not sound. Just the air shifting. A gaze brushing her shoulder blades. Someone was watching — and pleased by what they saw.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t cover herself. She only stood taller, lifted her chin — the way she’d been taught, not in words, but by example. A dutiful daughter does not flinch. A dutiful daughter knows: the body is no longer hers, not when the time has come. It is part of the path. It is the bundle. It must be examined, measured, sent.

She picked up the jug and poured warm water into the basin. Steam rose softly, kissed her feet like the tongue of a beast.

She knelt. Started with her hands — carefully, as if each finger needed to be printed on a new skin. Then her breasts. Her belly. Her thighs. Lower — slowly. Mother had said: even under your nails.

As she washed, she could feel it — the gaze was still here. Not in the room — in the world. As if the forest had already awakened and was watching through walls. Through mirrors. Through her.

And she did not shiver. Because everything was right. Because she was twenty-one. Because she was Red.

She washed her hair as her mother had said — thoroughly, as if combing the former self out of every strand. And with each motion, strand by strand, came the quiet certainty that this color was no accident, no trick of blood, but a sign.

Red — not golden, not copper, not sunlit, but truly red, the red of a blood apple, of a burn, of a cloak — fell down her shoulders in heavy waves, dark with water, weighty as a promise. She’d always been ashamed of it as a child: the others had teased, whispered, said it was the witch’s color. But her mother had once said: «You’re not red on the outside. You’re red inside. The hair is just a mark — so you won’t get lost.»

The water slid tenderly down her back, along her spine, between her buttocks — and lower, where the hair was the same red — and she understood: she wasn’t Red because someone called her that. She was this Red. Not the clothes, not the cloak, not the ritual — her body was speaking for her. Her body — like a brand.

And if someone was watching now — let them. Because shame is for those who still think they belong to themselves.

She dried herself slowly, almost lazily, like a cat not yet expected to leap. The cloth was coarse, but time-worn to softness, and each stroke didn’t irritate — it reminded. You are alive. You are here. You feel.

First the shoulders. Then the breasts. Her belly — last of all, as if she didn’t want to touch that center, that bowl where something was about to pour. She didn’t rush. There was no need. Mother didn’t call. No clocks ticked in the house. Time was measured differently here: by a glance, a gesture, a bundle at the door.

She turned to the mirror again, stood straight, rolled back her shoulders. Her body hovered, slightly damp, smelling of soap and skin — and in it was something almost regal, like the priestesses she had once read about in an old folio hidden behind the bread shelf. Women who did not shame their form, because the form was their essence — their weapon and their language.

She didn’t want to put on the old shift. It lay in the corner, crumpled like a shed skin. Pale, worn, patched at the shoulder — a detail that suddenly seemed insulting. To wear it now would be like wiping clean flesh with a dirty rag.

She was neither dressed nor undressed. She was ready. And that was all.

Red stepped toward the bundle, still naked. She crouched — the way she used to as a child, playing with mice under the floorboards. She reached out — the canvas was rough, the cord tightly knotted. She didn’t untie it. Just rested her palm atop it, lightly, as if to ask: Are you waiting for me? Or do you already know what’s inside?

There was no answer. But the warmth pulsing in her fingertips said: yes.

The house was quiet. Mother had gone — to the yard, or the woods, or beyond. That happened sometimes: she disappeared the night before. No farewells. No backward glances. She left so she wouldn’t witness the moment when a daughter became Red.

And the girl — still just body, just skin, just eyes and breath — was alone. Barefoot on the wooden floor, she felt the air stir outside, heard the fire sigh in the corner, saw the spiderweb twitch in the rafters. The whole house knew. The whole house breathed with her.

Still, she put on nothing. Because nothing left was hers. The shift — from the past. The cloak — not yet hers. All that remained was the body. And strangely, that seemed enough.

She heard footsteps before they sounded. In this house, sound always came early — like a warning, like the scent of rain before the first drop. A floorboard groaned at the threshold. Then another, bending under the weight of someone who knew where to step not to break the silence too much.

Mother entered — not quickly, not like a mistress of the house, but precisely. As though everything here had already been decided without her, and she had only come to confirm: yes, all goes as it should.

She said nothing. Just stopped at the door, wiped her hands on her apron — as she always did, even when there was nothing to clean — and looked.

Straight at her. At the bare one, scrubbed clean, fresh, unguarded — and thus strong. At the girl standing in the center of the room, not covering herself, not looking down, not justifying.

They stared at each other for a long time. Without words. Without names.

And for the first time in that gaze, there was no command, no care, no fear. There was something else. Weariness — yes. Acceptance — maybe. But most of all — recognition. Mother saw Red in her. Not the one who played with spools of thread. Not the one who once asked, «Who is Grandmother?» Not the one who trembled in her sleep.

This one — with a straight back, wet hair clinging to her neck. This one, whose nipples stiffened slightly from the cold, but not from shame. This one, whose belly was already beginning to warm. This one, whose eyes no longer asked — only awaited.

Mother came closer. Slowly. Almost through the air.

«Sit,» she said softly.

Red sat — crouched again, as before. Her hair slipped forward, veiling her chest, but she didn’t move it. She didn’t care.

Mother drew a comb from her belt. Old. Wooden teeth. Cracked, the pattern half-worn. She sat behind her daughter without a word and began to comb.

Each stroke — unhurried, almost tender, but restrained. Each sound — like a breath. The comb slid through damp strands, drawing out the remnants of sleep, of childhood, of what would be no use on the path.

«Do you know why you’re Red?» Mother asked, not raising her eyes.

She nodded — uncertainly. But nodded. And still — she asked: «Because of the cloak?»

Mother gave a small laugh. Light. Like from an old joke no one laughs at, but everyone understands.

«Because you go where they all went. Because you are blood. Because you are not the first. But you might be the last.»

A pause. One of the teeth caught on a knot. Mother stopped, gently untangled it with her fingers.

«Don’t tear,» she said. «Not there. Not back.»

She placed the comb on the table, walked to the door, picked up the bundle, and laid it at Red’s feet. On top — the crimson cloak. All of it — like an offering. Like a vow. Like the start of a scene from which no one exits unchanged.

«Dress when you’re ready,» Mother said. And left.

She remained crouched in silence. The bundle at her feet. The cloak on top. The house around her seemed to contract, breathing deep, waiting — as if the walls themselves knew: she was about to do something that could never be undone.

She stood — not abruptly, but with the slowness where resolve lives. Her body had cooled. Her skin prickled, not from fear — but from the fact that between her and the world there was no more fabric. Only air. Only gaze. Only expectation.

She reached for the cloak. It was heavy — not just in weight, but in meaning. The fabric rasped against her fingers, like it already knew how to lie against skin. Crimson — not fiery, not festive, but deep, like blood left on stone after a rite. It smelled of old smoke, wind, dust — and something else. Maybe skin. Maybe the body of the one who had worn it before.

She drew it over her shoulders. It had no fastenings — no buttons, no ties. It simply held itself there, embracing her with weight. Brushing her chest, gliding over her belly, falling down her sides, not hiding her legs. Beneath it, she remained bare — and that felt right.

No other clothing was given her. Only the path. Only the cloak. Only the body.

She stepped toward the door. Stopped. Looked down: bare feet, skin faintly bluish from the cold, toes curled at the touch of the wooden floorboards.

And then — a sound. Not loud. Not sharp. Almost homely.

A step. One. Then another. Mother.

She returned — not with a task, not with a question. She just entered. Her hands — empty.

Only then did Red see: tucked under her arm, almost casually, she held… something. Against her chest. Like a child.

Two boots. Red. Soft as skin behind the ear. The soles — slightly worn. The toes — rounded. The seam — curved like a smile.

Mother said nothing. She simply stepped forward. Slowly crouched down — just as Red once had, when she used to sit at the window and watch the rain begin.

She set the boots before her daughter. And looked. Simply — looked. As if asking: Do you need this? Do you want to walk the forest barefoot — like a sacrifice — or in boots, like one who follows her own trail?

Red stood in silence. Naked beneath the cloak. The cloak pulled down on her shoulders with its weight.

The boots waited.

She didn’t know what mattered more — the pain in her feet, or the right to choose. But she understood — this choice was hers.

And that was her first step.

Beyond the Threshold

She stood before the door, and the house fell unnaturally silent, as if the very wood held its breath. The fabric of the cloak clung to her still-damp skin, soaking in her warmth, memorizing her shape. Red shifted — not from doubt, but to feel that everything in her was alive, open, ready.

The boots stood at the threshold like two small sentries. She bent down and slipped them on — slowly, first the right, then the left, smoothing each fold. They fit perfectly, as though they had waited only for her. Warm. Soft. Red — exactly like the cloak, like the name, like the footprint in snow that wasn’t here, yet somehow felt.

The cloak rustled heavily against her legs, the boots creaked softly on the floorboards.

Catching herself, she picked up the bundle for Grandmother and tucked it under her arm.

The door creaked beneath her palm. She didn’t fling it open. Just enough — to pass through.

The light outside was diffused, morning-light, still without promises. The air — fresh, tasting of earth and ash, damp as the forest’s breath before words.

There was no beginning to the forest beyond the threshold. It had always been there. It simply hadn’t called before.

The air was denser outside. It wrapped around her skin, slipped beneath her cloak, caught in her hair. There was no threat in it, but the comfort was gone. Only attention remained.

She paused, listening. No sounds — only presence. As if someone watched. Not from hiding, but from the space itself. Not a gaze — knowledge.

She did not look away. Did not cover herself. She only stood straighter, exhaled, and walked.

The cloak stirred in the wind, lifted slightly, as if it wanted to fly — but changed its mind. It stayed with her. Like a vow. Like a second skin. Like a shadow that could no longer be peeled away.

Red stepped carefully, but not slowly. She didn’t know where the forest would lead her. But she knew: the path had begun.

At the end of the path, only a few steps from the porch, a gate appeared. It seemed farther away than before — as if overnight everything had stretched, twisted, grown heavier. Red remembered it differently: lower, kinder, wooden but almost alive — as if it had hands that opened wide when a barefoot girl ran in from the yard. She used to play here with a rope, jumped elastic bands, chased nettles with a stick and dreamed that beyond the gate lay a real country — with monsters, treasures, and a prince whose hands smelled of bread.

Now the gate felt like neither an entrance nor an exit. It was a boundary. Not like a fence. Like an eyelid. Like the seam between sleep and waking. Its boards had faded, hinges rusted, latch darkened. But everything held firm. As if someone checked it every night: is it still intact?

She came closer. Ran her fingers across the wood — rough, warm, alive. Her hand rested on the latch without command. Her fingers knew. Muscles remembered. The click — dull, like a shot into a pillow.

She didn’t open it immediately. First, she breathed in. In that breath was everything: the kitchen’s warmth, the pillow’s wool, her mother’s gaze that neither held nor released.

And only then — a step.

The gate yielded with a soft creak, as if it didn’t open, but relented. And the world beyond didn’t rush in, didn’t shift — it simply entered. Wordless. Signless. Only with silence, in which someone already stood.

The forest began to breathe.

Not with gusts of wind, not with sound — but with a barely perceptible shift in space, where the usual scents vanished: bread, ash, mother’s skin. Replaced by damp. Weight. The scent of wet wood, slightly sweet, muffled, like breath beneath bark.

The forest didn’t start suddenly. There was no wall of trees, no corridor. It simply began, like night begins at noon if you stare too long. Grass underfoot gave way to roots — thin, twisting, as though the earth had revealed its veins. Buds on the bushes looked like eyes. Moss like sleeping flesh. Everything here breathed — even the stones, even the silence.

Red walked slowly. Not out of fear. Out of respect. Each step — not just motion, but declaration: I am here. The cloak dragged behind her, snagging on branches. The boots whispered against damp soil. The forest heard her — but did not answer. Not yet.

Once, she had entered here — with sisters who were now gone. Then, in summer, the forest was different: green, careless, with cones, birdsong, and berries in their palms. Now it was quieter. The foliage muffled sound, branches did not rustle — only swayed, as if everything inside said: don’t interfere, girl. First, understand where you are.

The light did not fade. But it didn’t touch either. It was like a veil, like a leftover dream — dim, grayish-golden, seeping down through branches. Beneath it, the cool lingered. The scent of damp bark, of a mist you couldn’t see but could feel, like in a steam room, distorted space. Sometimes — a draft. Light, but directional. Suggestive.

The forest wasn’t kind. But it wasn’t cruel either. It was old. Too old to explain who ruled it. It knew — and that was enough.

Red walked on, the trembling in her belly shifting. It had been anxiety — now it was something closer to desire. Not carnal. A desire to understand, to find, to reach. She no longer thought of home. Not even of Grandmother. Only of how the forest waited. How it watched.

And somewhere ahead, like a breath before a word, He would appear.

But for now — only the Forest. And this passage through it — not a corridor, not a path, but a reception. She — a guest, still uncertain if she’d truly been let in.

Perhaps she walked too slowly, as if she wasn’t merely stepping on ground but learning to walk anew — on a new surface, on the breathing skin of the world, soft and yielding beneath her boots, ready to give way if she stepped wrong. But she wasn’t afraid. She only listened — to the sounds, the air, herself.

The forest accepted her reluctantly, but honestly. It didn’t repel, didn’t lure, didn’t frighten. It simply was, growing more itself with each step — darker, deeper, guarding. Trees stood not like sentries, but like witnesses: tall, with cracked bark, limbs wrapped in lichen, roots rising like an old man’s veins. Branches sometimes tangled so thickly that light faded into a dull glow — no shadows, no sunshine.

Still no birds. Only once — at the edge of a clearing — somewhere far off, a branch snapped. But it felt less like a sound and more like a question. She didn’t answer. Only walked on, spine a little straighter.

The feeling of solitude didn’t arrive all at once. First there was the forest, then the path, then her breath, then — her body. And only then came the realization that from this moment on, everything that happened would happen only to her — and no one else would see it. That didn’t frighten her, but settled heavily under her ribs. Solitude wasn’t emptiness. It was a garment she had to put on to move forward.

At some point, she remembered Grandmother. Not suddenly, not like a name. Just — like a presence. Like the one for whom she carried the bundle.

She’d never thought much of her before. Never asked questions — Mother discouraged it. The sisters said nothing specific either. Only once, when she pretended to sleep, she heard the eldest whispering to another, barely mouthing the words to her ear:

«If you reach Grandmother, you’ll understand everything.»

Back then, she thought it meant an old woman in a cottage beyond the forest, with pies and a blanket over her knees. Later — maybe a witch. Then — death. But none of those images stuck. Because Grandmother wasn’t someone. She was something. A word no one spoke with certainty. A place not marked on any map. A station one was sent to — but from which no one returned.

Mother had spoken of her coolly. Almost like the weather.

«You’ll take this to Grandmother.»

«Where does she live?»

«You know.»

But she didn’t know. Not the address, nor the road, nor the house. Only the voice. The one she dreamed of in childhood — husky, with a deep timbre, like from underwater. A voice that said:

«Come to me. I am waiting. You are already half mine.»

She’d tried to forget those dreams. Mother forbade speaking of them. But once, when she was seven, a stranger came to their house. A guest. Gray-haired, fingers stained with soil. Mother spoke to her long in the kitchen, whispering. Then said:

«Not yet. She is the last.»

And now, remembering this, Red walked deeper, and with every step, Grandmother grew more real, even though her image didn’t clarify. She was like a scent — you don’t see it, but you feel it, and the closer you get, the stronger it is.

The path disappeared again — not because it ended, but because it no longer needed to be definite. Underfoot was only earth — soft, damp in places, moss-covered — and the farther she went, the less she remembered why she walked. The movement became internal. Like breathing.

The trees grew more spaced out now. A thinned-out patch, like a quiet glade — no flowers, no stumps, just empty space where light entered more generously, making the air feel strange, as if someone had just left, leaving behind a trace of presence. No birds, no beast, no sound. Only silence — slightly less indifferent.

And then she saw it.

Not an object, not a being — a sign.

On the trunk of one tree — a ribbon. Old, faded to gray, with a reddish tint in the folds. It had been tied around the bark carelessly but firmly. The knot tight, the twists dull. Someone had done this long ago — and maybe not for her. But everything in this place told her she was meant to see it.

Red stopped. Came closer. Her fingers touched the fabric — rough, steeped in forest scent, and the longer she held it, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just a scrap. It was a trace.

Perhaps left by one of the sisters. Or maybe even by herself, in another time.

For a moment, it felt warm. Not from the sun — there was none here. From a touch that hadn’t yet faded.

She didn’t untie the ribbon. Didn’t take it. She only pressed her forehead to the bark beside it — for a second, like she used to against her mother’s chest. And whispered:

«I’m coming.»

The forest didn’t answer. But something in its silence changed. The quiet came closer. Like skin.

She straightened and walked on. With a bit more certainty. A steadier breath. The sense that Grandmother was listening.

The forest received her steps more gently now — as if moss had been laid beneath her boots that hadn’t been there before. Everything around seemed slightly more attentive: not lighter, not louder, but deeper. The branches still swayed lazily — but now not randomly, but with rhythm. As if they were listening — not to the wind, but to her.

Red walked carefully. No longer seeking a path, but allowing herself to move where her body led. Not her thoughts. Not fear. Not even the cloak that pressed heavy on her shoulders. Only her body — warm, alive, tingling in the soles of her feet, damp beneath the shoulder blades, nipples sensing every breath of draft beneath the fabric.

A drop touched her shoulder — not rain, just coolness, like a finger’s touch. She didn’t flinch. Lifted her gaze — to where light filtered through the leaves. It wasn’t sunlight. More like attention. And in it was a foreign will. Subtle. But inescapable.

She remembered one of the sisters — the first to leave. The oldest, beautiful like in icons, with eyes that always looked through. Once, that sister had said:

«The main thing is, don’t walk faster than the forest. It gets offended.»

Was she laughing then? Hard to recall. But the phrase remained. And now Red felt it on her skin, literally. She didn’t rush. And the forest — didn’t close.

Somewhere ahead, a branch snapped. Softly. But clearly. As if someone wanted to be heard — but not seen.

She stopped. Everything froze. Even the air.

In that moment, there was no fear. Only readiness. Not to run. Not to scream. But to receive.

If someone came — let them come. If something took — let it take. She was not defenseless. She was open.

But nothing appeared.

Only silence again. A different silence now. Not indifferent. Attentive.

The First Encounter

She continued walking. A few steps further on, she noticed a large boulder. It lay at the edge of a small hollow — almost round, dark gray, polished as if licked by rainfall. On its surface was a mark. Not a letter. Not a drawing. Just an indentation that one might dismiss as accidental. But her hand went to it on its own, as though it already knew.

Inside that hollow — warm air. And in her nostrils — a scent. Not of grass. Not of rot. Of a human. Not fresh. Not sweaty. But like a body that had lain there long. Or sat. Or waited.

Red closed her eyes. And spoke — silently, her lips barely moving: «I remember.»

Then the wind shifted. The moss stirred. And the forest — once more — allowed her to pass.

Of course, when she was a child, her mother told her the fairy tale of Red Riding Hood. Not beautifully, not with flair — casually, at dusk, while the bread cooled. A primitive version, lacking detail: a girl, a grandmother, a wolf, a hunter. A story where everything is clear, and the villain is punished in the end. She never remembered the names — just the structure. And most importantly — the order:

First the wolf. Then the grandmother. Then the hunter. That’s how it had to go.

She walked on through the silence, which felt less like forest and more like a theater. Each tree — a column. Each leaf — a prop. The air — taut, like waiting for the cue.

And she thought: if it followed the tale, he would appear any moment. The wolf. The eyes. The teeth. The smile no one teaches. He’d step out from behind a spruce, his voice soft, head tilted, asking:

«And where are you off to, lovely one?»

She felt something tighten inside — anticipation, a meeting she might fear but could not avoid.

But instead of a wolf, a man came from between the trees. Tall. Clad in dark. Wielding no cloak. A knife at his leather belt. A bow.

A hunter.

She recognized him immediately. Not because she had seen him before. But because he should not have come first.

He appeared about fifty. His face sun-browed, fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Beard thick, streaked with silver, neatly trimmed. He looked how those who survived everything look — without hardening. There was something almost reassuring about him: a direct gaze, capable hands, stride without haste. And yet… something in his features — a subtle fold at the mouth, eyebrows too straight, a scar or mask — bothered her. As if he could be someone else. Or already was.

He stepped closer — confidently, without abruptness or caution. As if he were not a stranger here but long familiar. As if he had expected to meet her. Only earlier.

«You’re lost,» he said. Not a question. A statement.

She looked at him and felt a dissonance inside. He was not the wolf. He was not Grandmother. He was not timely.

«You should not be here,» she said.

He smiled. Not broadly. At the corner of his mouth. A smile of someone who doesn’t need explanations.

«You’re right,» he said. «But you too should have been further along. But you see, the forest is different now.»

He approached again. Then she smelled it: not wood. Smoke. Leather. Metal. Not as a predator, but as a weapon.

«And the wolf?» she asked, not fully knowing why.

He tilted his head, almost pitying.

«The wolf? You still want everything to follow the tale?»

At that moment she understood: the tale was finished. Something else had begun.

So she wasn’t surprised when he calmly, matter-of-factly suggested she undress. He did not command. He did not request. He simply stated, as if changing shoes before dinner.

«Take it off,» he said. «Everything you’re wearing.»

She didn’t immediately grasp what he meant. The cloak? The boots? Or… all of it?

He didn’t repeat. Didn’t clarify. He just watched, steadily and without pressure — but with the attention that left no doubt: he would wait until she decided. And if she chose not to — her silence would be the answer.

Red did not flinch. The air thickened. Not colder — but denser.

As if the forest held its breath, sensing that something was about to happen it hadn’t predicted.

She felt the weight of the cloak on her shoulders — warm, slightly damp — and suddenly it felt superfluous. Neither protection, nor memory, nor part of the rite — but a barrier.

The hunter remained a few steps back. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t reach out. He waited silently. As though testing not her shame, but her hearing. Would she hear within herself the thing she feared?

She stepped back half a pace. Not from fear, but to rediscover the ground beneath her feet.

That same earth — damp, soft, scattered with moss and decaying leaves. She stood on it like a living creature — not yet taken.

Gently she placed Grandmother’s bundle on the ground. Then lifted her hands — slowly, with the kind of awareness reserved for those who feel they’re being watched. Her fingers reached the edge of the cloak at her collarbones. A slight movement — and the fabric slid down: over her shoulders, along her shoulder blades and sides — as though it wanted to leave her.

The red cloak slipped away without sound. It did not fall — it retreated, like a shadow no longer needed. All that remained was skin. Pale. Warm. Slightly trembling — but not afraid.

She did not cover herself. Did not recoil. Did not cast her gaze downward.

Only then did he step closer. Not abruptly. Not aggressively. He simply closed the distance. One step. Then another. He stopped at the point where the smell of a person becomes perceptible. Where one hears the breath. Where skin feels another gaze — not as weight, but as warmth.

«Better,» he said. Not praise. Observation.

Then he raised his hand — not to touch, but to pause her in that moment. As if he wished to preserve it. Record it. Not merely in memory. In history.

And in that instant she understood: he had seen people like her before. He knew these bodies, these reactions, these looks.

He knew how to strip and leave no blame. But that didn’t scare her. It pissed her off.

She didn’t move. Not half a step. Didn’t cover, didn’t turn away. Only lifted her chin slightly — barely perceptible, but enough so his gesture hung in the air, unresolved. He didn’t react to that. But also did not take another step.

She stood before him — naked, wearing only her boots, breathing steadily. Her chest rose slowly, her stomach tightened slightly on inhale. And all the while he did not look away. Not inspecting — measuring. Like a hunter — not his prey, but the distance.

«Why are you here?» she asked.

Her voice was calm. But carried steel — thin, like her mother’s needle.

He squinted slightly. Almost approvingly.

«And you think I’m here — for your soul?»

«Isn’t that so?» she replied.

«No,» he said. «I’m here — for mine.»

A pause.

He finally moved closer. Very close. Now only breath separated them. And he watched.

Unhurriedly. Not scanning, but pausing — on the neck, the shoulders, the collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the belly, the hollow between her hips. He watched not as a man entitled to stare, but as someone who always permitted himself everything.

Red felt it in his gaze. He didn’t scorch. He drew in — like warm air into lungs — slowly, deeply, held. As though he was breathing her. And didn’t hide that.

She stood straight. Her body alive — but obedient. Breasts slightly tense. Hips tilted back as if caught in a breeze. Neck elongated. She didn’t pose. Nor resist. She simply was. Whole. Complete.

He reached out his hand. His fingers were not rough, not cold. Dry. Bony. With a strength that spoke of experience, but not brutality. He touched her shoulder — the way one checks a saddle before mounting: to be sure it holds. Then he ran his hand down her arm, to the elbow. Then along her ribs, a glancing touch, as if by chance.

Her skin responded with a fine shiver. Not from fear. From the way every place he touched — stayed. As if something now pulsed beneath her flesh.

He leaned closer — not to her face, but to her neck. Inhaled. Not noisily. Almost silently. Then straightened again. His every movement was power without force. Because he demanded nothing. He was simply checking.

And then she felt it: he wasn’t looking at her as prey. He was looking at her — as a knot. Something to be untied. Or cut.

He was seeking a weakness — not to invade, but to be sure it existed.

It was almost tender. And thus — especially dangerous.

He kept watching, touching, breathing her in. Until his hand rested on her waist — just a little too firmly for a casual touch. His fingers lingered. Longer than they should have.

And in that moment, she felt something change in him. Something subtle. Elusive. Not in his body — in his intent. His gaze shifted — for the first time, not over her skin, but into her eyes.

And there, in that instant — was a man.

A real man. Not a hunter. Not an agent. Just — a man. With a body that wanted. With hands that, for a second, forgot what they were sent to do. With a face in which something alive flickered — a memory, a mistake, a weakness.

And she felt it. Not as victory. As a crack in the frame.

But he noticed it before she could speak. He pulled his hand back. Not abruptly. But with frustration. Almost disgust — at himself. Stepped back. Once. Twice. Exhaled sharply — as from delayed heat. Ran a hand over his beard. His shoulders twitched — for a heartbeat. And that was all. Everything returned.

His gaze — hard again. His mouth — set. His body — once more in armor.

«Not here,» he said. To himself. Not to her.

Then — more quietly, almost hoarsely, like after an illness:

«Get dressed.»

And he turned away. Not out of shame. Out of necessity — not to look one second longer. Otherwise, everything he came for would burn.

She saw it — in the way his shoulders remained slightly tense. He wasn’t watching. But he was listening. Listening to how she would move. Waiting. Maybe even hoping.

Red did not move.

She remained standing — naked, thin steam rising from her skin, hair slightly clinging to her neck. The wind lifted a strand by her temple — she didn’t brush it away. Let him look, let him listen — if he dared.

She crouched — slowly, as if picking up not a cloak, but a question. Her fingers touched the fabric. But didn’t lift it.

She straightened.

«What are you doing here?» she asked.

Softly. Without accusation. But with that exact intonation that even an old dog remembers — the one that says a woman has a right to know more than she’s told.

He stayed silent in surprise. She could see it — in the way the back of his neck darkened slightly. He hadn’t expected it. He thought: she’ll comply. Retreat into her cloak, into shame, into obedience.

But she remained. Naked. Back straight. Asking.

«If it’s not about that,» she said, still calm, «then what is it about?»

And the wind grew quieter. As if even the forest wanted to hear what he’d say.

But the Hunter didn’t answer. He just breathed. A little louder than a minute ago.

Then slowly turned.

In his eyes — no confusion, no irritation. Only that tired knowledge that makes other men give up.

He looked at her not as a body, not as a ritual figure — but as a chance to change the outcome.

«I came to warn you,» he said. «Not to go further.»

He spoke quietly, but firmly. As if making an offer on which a life depended. Maybe hers.

Maybe his. Maybe someone else’s — someone no longer here.

«You think I want something from you. Maybe I do. But mostly — I know how it ends. For girls like you. Beautiful. Smart. Proud.»

He paused. Not theatrically. Bitterly.

«They get broken. Not right away. Not violently. In a way that makes them want it. They think they’ve found themselves. And then… there’s nothing left.»

She said nothing. Listened. And to her surprise, realized he wasn’t making it up. He had seen this. Lived with it. Loved — and lost. And so he stood here, too early, in the wrong place, just to try and pull one out before it began.

«Leave,» he said. «Not back. Not to your mother. That path’s closed. Go away from here. Alone. Or with me. But don’t go where the forest leads.»

She still hadn’t picked up the cloak. Hadn’t lowered her eyes. She asked:

«Why? Why do you even care to save me? What do I matter to you?»

He exhaled. At first he wanted to answer quickly. Automatically. Dismissively.

«Because…» he began. «Because I stand for justice. For those who can’t defend themselves. For…»

He stopped.

She looked at him steadily. Didn’t believe him. And he saw that.

«Fine,» he said. «Not justice.» He paused. Then almost whispered — without drama, without grief — just plainly:

«Because I want the Wolf to die like a dog.»

Finally — the truth. The kind that puts everything into place. He wasn’t saving her. He was using her — to stab the one who took something from him. Maybe everything.

He sighed. Deeper than necessary. As if he had given up. As if saying «Wolf» had opened not just the truth — but a door into something more fragile.

She didn’t rush to speak. Just stood there — still naked, defiant, alive.

She looked at him not as at an enemy — but as someone who had fallen out of his role.

«Who was she?» she asked.

Softly. No interrogation. No pressure. The way one asks someone who can no longer lie.

He didn’t answer right away. Only closed his eyes — for a moment. As if seeing a face. Remembering a scent. And finding no words.

«You’re too much like her,» he said. «Not in looks. In the way you breathe.»

She didn’t move. Nor did he. Even the air between them froze, like flesh before a kiss. Or a strike.

He reached out — and this time he touched. Not her cheek. Not her shoulder. Her breast.

His fingers landed gently, with the hesitant tenderness one allows only in dreams. Her nipple tightened under his palm — not from shame, but from a touch that held no certainty, but held recognition.

He stilled. Then continued. Carefully. Almost tenderly. As if trying to remember. And to let go.

His hand moved down. To her belly. To her sex.

He didn’t push. He touched the hair between her legs — red, damp, slightly tousled, like something that survived a fire. And in those motions, there was no arousal — only despair.

She didn’t pull away. But said:

«I’m not her.»

Quietly. Clearly. And that was enough.

He froze. Then jerked his hand back. As if burned. As if realizing he had crossed a line. Or nearly had.

He turned away. Stepped aside — to breathe, truly breathe. As though his body returned to him. And shame. And fury — not at her, at himself.

«Let’s go,» he said. «Now. I know a path. We’ll circle around. We’ll leave.»

She stood calmly. She had already picked up the cloak. Held it in her hands — but didn’t put it on. Her gaze was firmer than before.

«I don’t want to be someone’s revenge,» she said.

And fell silent.

He said nothing. There was nothing left to say.

But something in his body tensed. First barely — in the neck, the fingers, the jaw. Then clearly.

He listened.

Turned his head. Slowly. Not toward her. Toward the forest.

And she saw it — not fear, not anger — instinct. The hunter sensed someone closer than he liked.

He stepped back. Then another — barely touching the ground. His hand moved to the knife at his belt — not out of intent, but of habit.

«Is he here?» she asked.

He didn’t reply. His face answered for him: yes.

The Wolf had not appeared. But the attention in the forest had changed. As if someone’s eyes had dropped below the branches.

The Hunter looked at her again.

For a long time. One last time. And in that look was no plea, no regret. Only hope — for memory.

«Remember,» he said. «Sometimes you won’t have time to choose a side. But choose anyway.»

And with that, he turned. And left. Not the way he came. But into the thicket — as if he meant to meet the one he had avoided.

She was alone. With the cloak and the bundle in her hands. In her boots. And with a new kind of silence around her — dense, like fur.

Awareness

Yes, she was alone. But the forest hadn’t returned to itself. It didn’t dissolve into familiar quiet, didn’t retreat into indifference, like it used to. On the contrary — it came closer. And quieter.

Such silence Red had never heard before. Not dead. Not sleepy. But the kind that waits. Not for a sound — for a step.

She threw the cloak over her shoulders, left it open. Just to stop her skin from being a statement. Legs — bare. Neck — exposed. Step — cautious.

She walked on. No map. No direction. Just forward — along a path no one had shown her yet, but which she could already feel. As if someone had imagined it, and now was watching how she moved.

The moss beneath her feet grew softer, almost velvety. The tree bark — smoother. The air — warm, despite the shade.

She breathed in — and smelled something. Not earth. Not wind. Skin. The kind that soaks in sunlight but belongs to no body nearby.

It crept in like smoke. And felt personal, like eyes resting on the back of her neck.

Red didn’t stop. But something in her gait changed — her steps became quieter, her movements more precise, as if she’d been trained to walk a stage without dropping a breath.

She knew: someone would appear soon. But that wasn’t the frightening part. The frightening part was that she wanted him to. That everything in her body already knew — he was close.

She walked. And with every step, she more clearly felt: she was no longer alone. Not because she heard anything. But because everything around her had become too attentive.

The forest didn’t rustle. Didn’t stir. But in its stillness, there was movement — under bark, under soil, in branches. As if someone was peering through the thickness of the world — at her. Not at her clothes. Not her body. At the movement of her desire.

And that didn’t scare her.

Her body moved on its own, without needing to decide. Her mind was quiet. Her hands were busy with the bundle.

Her bare legs felt the air like skin senses a touch — not yet made, but already chosen.

To her right — between two pines — an opening appeared. She turned toward it. Not thinking. Just because it felt right. Not closer. Not shorter. Warmer.

The path — not a path, but a direction. Roots didn’t get in the way, but rose toward her feet to feel their weight. Even the moss seemed softer. As if it knew who it was carrying.

She stopped at the bend of a tree. The trunk was warm. Her hand rested on it by itself. No mark. No carving. But in the wood — a pulse. And under her palm — the sense of being answered.

And then — a voice.

It didn’t sound. It passed through her skin, like a chill, like a touch to the nape when you know someone’s watching.

The voice was not outside. And not inside. It was her. As if her breath had started speaking in a different tongue.

And it said:

«Do you feel how well you’re walking?»

Not a question. Not a statement. More like a caress, with a voice. Soft as a tongue to the ear. A word that wraps around you. And stays.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t feel fear. She just stood there — palm on bark, cloak open, bundle pressed to her chest. And in that moment, for the first time, she wasn’t thinking of the Wolf. She was thinking of herself — beside the Wolf.

Not as prey. Not as chosen. But as someone whose breath matches the rhythm of his predatory step.

She stayed by the tree. Not because she didn’t know where to go. But because everything inside her said — now is not the time to move.

Her fingers still rested on the bark. Rough. Warm. Alive.

In her chest — not fear. Not worry. Something else. Thicker. Like desire — but deeper. Not aimed at anyone. Just — to be.

She crouched beside the trunk. The cloak fell open. There was no sunlight here, yet the air felt warm. And inside — everything was wet. Not from the forest. From her.

She didn’t think about it. Her body moved on its own. One hand stayed on the tree.

The other slid under the fabric. Slowly. Gently. No need to rush.

It wasn’t defiance. Wasn’t a ritual. It was a touch to herself — not to arouse, but to check: Am I still mine? After the Hunter’s words. After the gaze of the forest. After the voice that wasn’t a voice, but a touch from within.

Her fingers found skin just below the navel. Then — the wetness between her thighs. She sighed. Not out loud.

Everything happened in silence — as if she and the forest had made a pact: we do not speak of this.

The movements were barely there. More presence than caress. As if she were trying to remember where her body ends — and he begins. And at what point the two bleed into each other, even if no one had touched anyone yet.

Somewhere nearby, a leaf stirred. She didn’t stop. Because this wasn’t for someone. It was for her, to remain within herself.

She felt her pulse. Not in her chest. Between her fingers. And with every stroke, it became clearer: he wasn’t coming closer. He was waiting. Waiting for her to call him.

Her fingers moved torturously slow. The skin under them — hot, wet, sensitive to trembling. But there was no hurry. Not in the body. Not in her thoughts.

She touched herself as if tasting — not pleasure, but how the body responds when spoken to kindly.

A little firmer — and the thigh contracted. A little higher — and the chest answered. The cloak slipped from her shoulders, lay behind her like wings dropped to the earth.

The air touched her nipples like lips. A light breeze — like a sigh into the neck. But all of it was hers. Only hers. For now.

Her breathing deepened. The silence around her thickened. And then, in a sudden moment, she realized: if she kept going — everything would break loose. The body would spill over. The ritual would shatter. And he… he would come too soon.

She froze.

Her fingers stayed — between her thighs, in warm, wet dark. But they didn’t move. She didn’t let herself reach the end. Because it wasn’t meant to happen here. Or now.

Because it would happen — not in solitude, not beneath a tree, but at another point, where everything aligns.

She exhaled. Slowly, through pursed lips. Opened her eyes. Fingers slid out from between the folds. Her hand rested on her belly. Tension still lived there. But now it was part of her walk. Part of her gaze. Part of her.

She stood up. Unrushed.

And walked on. Now — truly knowing he was close.

The path evened out. For a time, the forest felt lived-in again — as if remembering it was not only a place for initiations, but also for strolls.

The light softened. Shadows grew rarer. The leaves rustled like children playing. And somewhere ahead — a voice.

Playful. Careless. Not from this forest at all.

«Are you Little Red Riding Hood?»

She stopped.

From behind a bush, startling a bird, a girl stepped out — ten, maybe younger. Red-haired. Freckled. Cheeks pink, like she’d just been running. A branch in her hand. A pouch on her belt. And that gaze — open, bold, like someone who hasn’t yet learned that fear can be real.

«I recognized you right away. By the cloak,» the girl said, without hesitation. «Everyone talks about you at our house. Even Mama. She says if anyone makes it, it’ll be you.»

Red said nothing. Just looked.

The girl came closer. Right up to her. Poked the edge of her cloak. Then the bundle.

Then looked up.

«Is that something important? My grandma says the real journey starts when you’re carrying something you don’t understand. I don’t get it yet. But I guess I will when I grow up.»

She spoke easily. As if this wasn’t a forest, but a game. As if the Wolf wasn’t real, but a storybook thing. And Grandma — not a mystery, but just the one who bakes pies.

And in that moment, Red recognized her. Not the face. The tone. The words. The trust.

She had been exactly like this. Exactly.

«Are you going far?» the girl asked.

Red finally answered — with effort, with delay, as if the voice had to be pulled from deep inside.

«I’m going where I’m expected.»

«Cool,» said the girl. «Everyone says that too. «Cause if no one’s waiting for you — you’re not real.»

She smiled. A child’s smile. Open. No subtext. No game.

And in that smile, Red saw everything she no longer had.

«Sorry, gotta go,» the girl said. «There’s three of us. They’re probably waiting. We’re going together. Mama says the forest accepts us if we stay close.»

«Mama?» Red repeated. Softly. Almost without realizing it.

«Yeah. She gathers us. The sisters. You probably have one too, right? With white hands and a cold voice? She says we were born for a reason. And if you’re Red — then you were definitely born.»

And she ran off.

Her laughter echoed through the trees. Then faded. Like scent after a candle’s gone out. The warmth remains — but it isn’t yours.

Red stood there. A long time.

And then, in her mind, the mosaic assembled itself. Many houses. Many mothers. Endless sisters. But one path.

Everything repeats.

She was not the first. She was not alone. She was just — the next.

And still… she walked on. In her cloak. With the bundle. With a strange languor in a defenseless body. Because even if you’re not the first, even if you’re not alone — you still must go.

Need

She stepped into the clearing unexpectedly. The forest parted — reluctantly, but politely. As if yielding to something older. The light here was different. Not brighter. Just more precise. It didn’t illuminate — it emphasized.

And she saw him at once.

He stood — not on the path. Just off to the side. Not hiding. But not stepping forward either. Simply being. As if he’d stood there so long the forest had begun to grow around him.

No cloak. No armor, no fur, no talismans. Just dark clothing — simple, dry, like ash. Leather boots. A shirt with an open collar. Traces of soil on his hands. Nothing on his neck.

And still — she knew. Unmistakably. He was the Wolf.

Not from the teeth. Not from the eyes. From the way the world changed in his presence.

Everything paused — but didn’t freeze. The space didn’t contract — it held its breath. Like before a leap. Or a confession.

He stood calmly. Without tension. But his body felt folded inward, as if a different form lived beneath his skin.

His eyes — not predatory. On the contrary, attentive. Their color — indiscernible: something between hazel and gray, like bark, like fur, like nothing definite. But the gaze…

He didn’t look at her. He held her.

And she understood: He didn’t recognize her. He remembered.

Not her name. Not her face. Her essence. As if they had already been bound. Once. Elsewhere. In another body. In another story.

She didn’t move toward him. He didn’t step to her. But the space between them thickened — as if it was breathing for both of them.

He tilted his head slightly. Unobtrusively. As if asking, without speaking:

Do you know who I am?

She didn’t nod. But her gaze — stayed.

I know what you’ve become.

He didn’t smile. But something flickered at his lips. Not mockery. Recognition.

Then he stepped back. Didn’t turn. Didn’t leave. Just vanished.

Not into thin air — Into the forest, which accepted him as its own.

Red stayed where she was. Her legs — humming. Her chest — full, like after an unfinished breath. Everything inside her seemed to tremble — but not from fear. From something else. Something more complex.

As if her insides had recognized him before her mind did. And now struggled to catch up.

She looked down.

Nothing on the ground. The grass — undisturbed. Leaves — untouched. Even the air — refused to admit anyone had been there.

And yet…

By one tree, the bark was still warm.

She walked over. Touched it.

It didn’t burn. But it hadn’t cooled either. The warmth wasn’t from the sun. It was like the heat of a body that had stood there a long time — silent, watching, breathing into her.

She didn’t pull her hand away. On the contrary — she pressed closer. Her forehead. Her cheek. As if hoping: maybe the sound of his gaze still lived in this tree.

Then she straightened. Exhaled. Still slowly.

As if her breath hadn’t left — but melted inside, spilling between her thighs, across her belly, to her chest.

She clutched the bundle — too tightly. And then she knew: her nipples — tense. Her skin — damp. Between her legs — hot, like after a dream where no one touched you, but you still woke from a moan.

The cloak still hung on her, but only to graze — not to cover.

Every step echoed in her groin, as if her body remembered what hadn’t happened — and wanted it continued.

She walked on. But her gait had changed. It had a lazy smoothness — like a woman who had been desired, but not yet taken.

And the forest felt it. The moss — softer. The air — warmer. The leaves — hanging lower, as if they, too, were waiting for her to stop again.

And she knew — this wasn’t a touch. This was his promise. And now it lived inside her — alive. Ready. Hot.

At first she thought it was just a cramp. Like hunger. Or need. As if her body asked for something ordinary — water, food, rest.

But the farther she walked, the more clearly she understood: this wasn’t about fatigue.

The pain was soft, spreading. The warmth — strange, shifting.

She tried to ignore it. Took a few more steps — focused, almost stubborn.

But the ache deepened. Lower. It pulsed — as if something inside her was alive, unfolding.

She started to think — maybe this was just a need. Physical. Simple. She had to find a place. Relieve herself. Return to herself.

She looked around.

Thicker grass to the left. Shrubs to the right. But neither felt right. Too close to the trail.

And then, just ahead, on a slight rise — a small clearing.

An elevation that seemed made for ritual. Or rest. Or for remaining in sight — without shame.

She turned toward it. Climbed slowly, as if her body still refused to admit why it was going there.

At the top, she stopped. Listened inward.

Yes — the ache was low, pulling, slowly building.

Inside — heat and heaviness.

She pressed her thighs together. Then, measured, opened the cloak.

Looked around — reflexively.

No one.

Only then, carefully, as if unsure she had the right — she squatted. Right there on the grass. On warm, dry ground. On a spot that seemed to offer itself.

She expected relief. But something else came.

As if the posture, the closeness to earth, her vulnerability — uncovered something more.

The warmth inside her didn’t leave. It spread. As if something in her smiled.

And suddenly she realized: all this time, she hadn’t needed to relieve herself.

She’d been looking for a place where she could simply be.

Not covered. Not scripted. Not playing a role. Just — naked. Pitiful. But alive.

When it was over, she didn’t stand right away.

Her body — relaxed, but not limp. Just present — heavy, warm, full, like after immersion.

Then she looked down. At herself. At the ground. At what remained.

A small, brown coil — still warm, still wet, lay in the grass at the center of the rise.

Undeniably hers. Not a forgery. Not a boar’s trail. Not an allegory.

A trace too personal to describe. Too real to vanish.

She looked at it — not with disgust, not with shame. With wonder.

As if only now she understood: the body doesn’t just travel. It leaves things behind.

And that too — is part of the journey.

No one had taught her to see confession in this. But something in her knew: this is how animals mark. This is how rituals begin. This is how one speaks to the earth — when no words remain.

She rose. Unhurried.

Felt the wind touch the skin between her legs — now especially bare, not from lack of fabric, but from the recognized fact: I exist.

For a second she wanted to leave everything as is. To stay uncovered. No cloak. So anyone who passed would know: Here stood someone who wasn’t pretending.

But she covered herself. The cloak settled — soft, obedient. Not like a mask. More like a second birth.

She didn’t know if anyone would ever see this place. But it already existed. Like a birthmark on the forest’s body.

Like a mark. Like the beginning of a different breath.

She stood there, slightly bent, legs still parted — not yet dressed, not yet off the hill.

The wind blew between her thighs, touched the red fringe between them, and on the ground, right beneath her — there she was. Left behind. Visible.

Her hand reached out, almost absently, toward the nearest bush — hoping to find something soft. Suitable.

A leaf. A root. Anything.

And then — a voice.

Male. Calm. Velvety.

As if speaking not behind her, but from within.

«A leaf will be too rough. Take this.»

She flinched — not from fear. From the precision of the moment.

She turned. Very slowly. As if she already knew whom she’d see — but needed to look anyway.

He stood at the base of the hill.

He hadn’t snuck up. Hadn’t dropped in from above.

He had simply been there. As if he’d stood there the whole time — waiting, watching, and had chosen this exact moment.

In his hand — a folded kerchief. Silk. Red as ripe fruit. Smooth.

Not something a man of the woods would carry.

He held it out, smiling. Not like a predator. Not provocatively. But the way someone smiles when they already know you’ll take them seriously.

«Don’t rush,» he added. «Just don’t pretend you’re embarrassed.»

She looked at him. Didn’t take a step. Didn’t say a word. Just breathed — the way you breathe when your body already knows, and your mind is still trying to invent how to behave.

The stranger didn’t climb the rise. Didn’t move closer. The handkerchief still rested in his palm — silk, clean, new.

«It’s clean,» he said, confirming her thought. «And I’m not rushing.»

She remained silent. But she no longer hid. The cloak — open. Thighs — bare. The trace beneath her — visible. And in all this — a calm she’d never known before.

She straightened up, rose to her full height. Without haste. Walked to the edge of the rise. Lowered her gaze to his hand. And only then — to his face. Eyes, lips, cheekbones, the line of his neck — everything was human.

He didn’t look like the Wolf. The Wolf looked like him.

She reached out. Took the handkerchief. He didn’t clutch it, didn’t hold it back. He gave it as though it had belonged to her from the start.

And then, without breaking eye contact, Red lowered herself into a squat again. But not like before. Not to hide. But to finish what had begun — in front of him, in his silence, in his permission.

She wiped herself — slowly, almost gracefully. As though the touch of the cloth was not to her body, but to the memory of who she was.

Then she stood. Turned to face him. Didn’t hand the cloth back, but placed it gently on the ground. Between them. As a marker. As a challenge. As a sign that shame is something you leave behind before entering the forest.

He nodded. Just once. With respect. And the smile on his lips deepened. Quieter. Deeper. Ready for what comes next.

Rain

He took his first step toward the knoll only after she wrapped herself in the cloak again. He wasn’t in a hurry. As if giving her space to choose — to stay or to disappear.

She stood straight, calm, but something inside clenched — not from fear, but from the sharpness of the premonition.

So she smiled. Thinly. Almost defiantly. As if this moment belonged to her, not to him.

«Are you, by chance, the one who usually asks: „Where are you going, Little Red Riding Hood?“»

He stopped. Smiled back — the smile of someone who knows all the rules and therefore plays slower than he needs to.

«And are you, by chance, the one who answers too honestly? About pies, butter — and a grandmother behind the mill?»

She shrugged. Casually. But her fingers tightened on the bundle.

«Maybe I’ve decided that this tale’s been asking for a rewrite for a long time.»

«Or maybe you’ve just reached the part where the truth begins,» he replied. «And now you want to play the child a little longer, before you have to pay the price of being grown.»

She looked at him. And didn’t back away.

«And you’re not afraid I’ll choose a different path?»

He smirked. Almost gently.

«I’m not asking for that reason. I just want to know which one you’ll take — when you choose not with your mind, but with your body.»

She didn’t answer. But she stepped off the knoll. Right past him. Close enough that her thigh nearly stirred the air between them. And she whispered as she passed:

«We’ll see who gets there faster.»

He didn’t turn around right away. Let her take one more step — as a gift of freedom. Then he spoke. Not loudly. Just enough for the words to brush between her shoulder blades.

«Do you know where you’re going?»

She froze. Not from surprise — from the accuracy of the strike. That phrase didn’t go through the ears. It went through the gut. The pelvis. The heart.

She turned — uncertainly. Her look — half a smile, half a flinch. The fear wasn’t of him. It was fear of knowing the answer — and not wanting to speak it.

«Do you always ask when you already know?»

He raised an eyebrow. Took a step closer. Almost lazily. Almost politely.

«Sometimes I ask to be sure. Sometimes — to give a chance not to lie.»

She stood straight. But the cloak had shifted — not down, but to the side. A shoulder exposed. Just barely. But enough to feel the air. And his gaze.

«And if I say I’m going to Grandma’s?»

«Then you’re still in the fairytale.»

«And if I say I’m going home?»

«Then you’re already in the forest.»

They looked at each other. Like before a touch that no one had made. And no one had revoked.

He smiled and said — almost silently:

«We’ll see which of us realizes first where you’ll really end up.»

She tilted her head slightly. Smiled from under her brows — not as a girl, not as a woman, but as someone who already knows: if you tremble — smile.

«Maybe I don’t want to realize just yet,» she said. «As long as I’m walking — I’m still mine. And when I do realize… we’ll see whose I become.»

Her voice was steady. But under the cloak — her nipples tensed. Warmth bloomed between her legs again. Her body knew that everything said had been real.

She took another step. Turned her back. But didn’t walk away immediately.

«And you…»

«Yes?» he said.

She didn’t turn.

«Don’t lose me too quickly. Or I’ll think this was all for nothing.»

And she walked on. Not playing. Living.

She left without looking back, and that was exactly how she gave him everything.

The Wolf stood silent. Listening to the sound of her footsteps dissolving into the forest, how the cloak brushed branches, how it slipped through the air, how her hips moved not along the path but along a promise she’d made to herself.

He didn’t follow. Didn’t move. Because to follow — would be to admit dependence.

And he was something else.

Only when the sound of her footsteps faded entirely did he lift his hand — the same one that had held the handkerchief. Now empty.

He bent down. Picked up what she had left behind — not the fabric, but the gesture, the resolve, the new boundary between her and the rest of the world.

He didn’t take the handkerchief with him. He ran it slowly across his wrist, as if across a woman’s skin.

And then — hung it on the lowest branch of a nearby tree. Just above eye level.

So that if she came back, she would see. And know: he had been here. And — he would be again.

Then he thought for a moment. Ran fingers over his unshaven chin. Inhaled — not air, but her echo.

And vanished. Not into shadow — into a script now waiting only for her consent to become real.

Meanwhile, Red kept walking, trying to keep her steps steady like her breathing, as if movement itself could answer the questions she hadn’t yet formed — and for a while, it really seemed clear: the path beneath her feet remained, the forest didn’t close in with hostility, and the cloak still felt like a border, a protection.

She remembered how her mother — in that peculiar tone, not soft, but unyieldingly caring — would say:

«Keep the sun ahead. Walk where it calls. It will show the way.»

And back then, it felt like more than guidance — almost a blessing: the sun as thread, companion, something that would not betray her.

But the forest played by different rules. Here, light wasn’t a guide but a player. It fractured in the leaves, danced on branches, vanished behind trunks. She’d long realized that the sun — even when present — offered no direction, only confusion, making her guess which patch was truth and which — just a trick of mercy.

Now, as a milky, viscous weight gathered above the trees — not darkness, not storm, but sky’s indifference — the sun disappeared altogether. As if offended that its guidance hadn’t been obeyed, or maybe deciding it was time she walked alone.

Red stopped — not out of fear or fatigue, but because she noticed: her steps had grown uncertain not from the journey, but from within. Like the feeling when you look in the mirror and suddenly don’t recognize the expression on your own face.

The path was still there — barely. But its lines blurred, the branches changed language, and everything seemed to hold its breath, waiting whether she’d choose at random — or dare admit she didn’t know.

She stood motionless, trying to find direction not by trail but by an inner pull that — of course — faded just then.

And that’s when the rain began — not loudly, not theatrically, but with polite inevitability.

At first, she felt it not as sound, but as a shift in the air. As if the forest had inhaled — and refused to exhale again. Then — the first drops. They didn’t strike or sting. They landed softly, one by one, as if the sky had chosen to touch her — without warning, without hostility.

She lifted her face, inhaled — and felt the drops trace paths along her forehead, her temples, her neck, and then — beneath the cloak, checking where she was still warm, where protected, and where it could slip in.

The rain didn’t rush. As if the forest didn’t want to frighten her, only to rinse off the excess.

The path that had been obvious began to blur. Leaves grew heavier, branches drooped lower, and the ground beneath her feet turned soft — like a body absorbing everything the sky poured without pause.

Her cloak soaked quickly — not all the way through, but enough to drag downward, reminding her: you’re carrying more than just yourself now.

Red didn’t rush to find cover. Didn’t panic. She stood there, sensing that the rain wasn’t an enemy, but a voice. Speaking without words: you’re not under someone’s light anymore. You’re now — within yourself.

And that — was terrifying. And enticing. Equally.

The rain didn’t lash. It simply fell. Continuously, indifferently. As if long ago it had decided: it would fall as long as needed to peel her in layers — fabric, skin, scent, breath.

Her cloak ceased to be protection. Soaked, it clung heavily to her shoulders, her back, her chest, and every step felt less like movement forward and more like a struggle against something that wanted to slow her down.

The trail faded into wet leaves. Branches sagged. The earth beneath her boots bounced softly, stickily, as if trying to hold her.

She stopped. Not from fear. Not from despair. Just — because it hit her: walking on like this meant walking into nothing. Into a void she hadn’t chosen.

Wiping rain from her lashes and brows, she looked around. No landmarks. No sun. No shadows. Just the sound of rain — the only rhythm.

And so she crouched beneath a great tree, its roots deep, its trunk rising into the rain-soaked sky. Beneath its crown it wasn’t dry — but drier.

She wrung the hem of her cloak. Water ran down her fingers, dripped onto her thigh, then down the inner side — reminding her: wetness comes in kinds.

Her chest — chilled, but alive. Her fingers — trembling, but not from cold.

She closed her eyes. And only then let herself think — of him.

Of the gaze, the voice, the handkerchief, the way he stood — and didn’t touch, yet touched every thought.

It wasn’t rescue. It was intensification.

Her fingers moved to her stomach. Not tenderly — attentively. As if seeking an answer not in thought, but in the place where the call begins.

And she exhaled. A word. Quietly. Without adornment. Without pretense.

«Wolf…»

Not as a command. Not a plea. A recognition. She knew who she needed. Not because he would come — but because he was already here. In her.

She sat under the tree — not sheltered, just partially shielded by its heavy canopy. The rain didn’t stop. But it grew even. Like the breath of a weary beast — not frightening, but a reminder: you’re not alone. Unless you insist on being.

Her cloak was soaked. The fabric dragged. Clung to her breasts, her belly, her thighs. The boots held up — but waterlogged, heavy, each step now a march through viscous uncertainty.

Still — she sat. Silent. The word was said. The name — breathed. But no answer came.

And in that silence — which usually rings with expectation, but now simply pressed down — a choice emerged.

She could call again. Louder. Desperate. Like a girl lost in someone else’s woods.

She could — almost automatically — remember the Hunter, the one who once offered escape, who touched like he was punishing, and who might still be watching, waiting for her to break and call him — as the lesser evil.

She could even — simply cry out. No name. Just a call for help. Because sometimes the body wants to be found, even by anyone.

And finally — she could call no one. Because calling is an admission. Because to call — is to believe you’re not enough.

She could keep going. Slowly. Stubbornly. Into the rain, into the fog, into the gray air with no sun, no path — only earth beneath her and the bundle on her chest.

And she stood there, unmoving — because each of those choices led to something irreversible. None promised warmth. None guaranteed outcome. But any would shape who she became.

And in that suspended moment of space and time — everything inside her stilled. Listened. Not to the rain. To herself.

If she were to call him — the Hunter — not by name, but by nature, simply exhale: «If you’re still near…» — he would come. Not from the fog. Not from the trees. He would just step into the space, as if he had always been two steps away, simply waiting for a signal — like a predator who knows how to look like a savior.

He would be wet — not soaked through, but enough that the fabric of his shirt clung to his body. A bow over his shoulder. A look — not hungry, but knowing. One that held no promises, only calculation.

He wouldn’t ask why she called. Wouldn’t say: «I knew you couldn’t handle it.» He’d just walk up. Stop beside her. And silently open a fist — inside it a rope, or a belt, or simply a hand — warm, dry, commanding.

She would look up. He’d say: «You held on long enough. That’s enough now.»

He wouldn’t be gentle. He wouldn’t ask if she wanted it. He’d be certain she’d called — not for protection, but for punishment.

The cloak — torn off. The boots — yanked roughly, dirt and all. He’d lift her by the arm, make her kneel in the moss. And the body — would tremble not from fear, but from the fantasy unbroken.

He’d touch her between the legs. Not tenderly. Not to humiliate. As if testing readiness.

You’re not wet from the rain — that much is clear.

He’d breathe into her ear:

«You don’t need saving. You need to be used. Otherwise, you’ll burn yourself from the inside.»

And she’d imagine him entering — quickly, sharply, wordlessly. Not because he could, but because she allowed it — when she called.

She’d see herself shaking — not from cold, but from having been whole for too long.

And in that vision — there’s no love. Not even tenderness. Only something that stirs deeper than a kiss.

Because this — isn’t a fantasy of rescue. It’s the fantasy that someone will take responsibility for her weakness.

But what if she just screamed? Without a name. Without hope. Without the pride that still clung to her legs and kept her from running?

What if she just opened her mouth and said: «Someone…» or didn’t say anything at all, just let sound escape — a rasp, a moan, a sob, anything, as long as someone came?

She imagines how it might be. How in answer to the sound — to the crack in the world —

someone would enter the forest, someone who hadn’t been called by name.

He might be tall. Or hunched. Hooded. Faceless. With a sack over his shoulder. With eyes that had seen too much — and now looked inward, not at her.

He’d say: «You called.»

And not ask why. Not ask who she was. To him, she’d just be an answer. Just prey. Just a body, soaked to the bone. He wouldn’t be kind. Wouldn’t be cruel.

He would be — a role. Like a door. Like a knife. Like a dream with no meaning.

He might embrace — but not comfort. Might wipe her face — but not remember it. Might take off her cloak — and keep it, because he was cold too.

He might take her — and lead her somewhere with no way back. Where others — just like her — sit under makeshift roofs, warm their hands on borrowed flesh, and no one asks who was called.

Or maybe, he would just place a hand on her head and say: «Now you’re mine.» And that would be enough to make «no» impossible.

There’s no eroticism in this vision. Only a shiver. And still… something about it pulls, dark and strong. Because to be found — even by accident — is easier than staying with yourself.

But what if she called Him — truly? Not in a whisper, not half-spoken, not like a girl afraid of being heard, but as a woman who knows who is meant to come to her?

If she exhaled a name. Not for the forest. For herself. «Wolf…»

She knows how it would happen. He wouldn’t appear immediately. Wouldn’t step from the shadows, wouldn’t snap a branch. First — the air would change. Grow thicker. Warmer. Stickier, like before a storm. Smelling not of rain, but of skin. Metal. The deep sleep that remembers touch.

And then — he would be there. Not beside her. Around her. Not in a body. In the reaction to everything.

He wouldn’t say: «Did you call me?»

He’d say: «You’re ready.»

And she wouldn’t be afraid. Because she knew. Because everything inside her that trembled — hadn’t been waiting for tenderness, but for resonance.

He’d approach. Slowly. In circles. Like a beast that senses the invitation is real. No agenda. No trap.

He wouldn’t touch her immediately. He’d inhale her — as if trying to understand what was open in her now: her neck, her palm, the wet between her legs, or the place where she had already said yes.

He’d say: «I heard you before you called. You were walking through me. Not the forest.»

She wouldn’t answer. Because the answer was in the body. In lips slightly parted. In nipples hard beneath the wet cloak. In fingers still gripping the bundle — as if it were the last tie to childhood.

He wouldn’t rush. And that — was the scariest. And the sweetest.

Because when he finally touched her — it wouldn’t be a beginning. It would be a continuation.

But what if — she didn’t call at all?

If she stayed in the damp, in the solitude, in the weight of the soaked cloak,

and didn’t exhale a name, a plea, a summon?

If she simply — stood, straightened her back, felt the heavy droplets sliding down her nape — along her spine, over her tailbone, between her buttocks — and did nothing?

If she accepted that she was alone. That no one would come unless she gave permission. And even if she did — no one was obligated.

If she kept going. Not because she knew the way. But because standing meant waiting — and she no longer waited.

Let the rain seep under the cloak. Let the boots chafe her feet. Let her chest be hollow, and between her thighs — wet not from want, but because the body still remembered touches that never happened.

She could choose not to call. Not because she was proud. But because she didn’t want anyone choosing for her.

Let him find her — if he wanted.

Let the rain decide — if it would wash away her fear.

Let the forest open — or stay closed.

She walks. Alone. Silent. Slow.

And with every step, she doesn’t grow stronger. But closer — to herself.

The Path Down

It was almost dry beneath the tree, aside from the damp edge of the cloak and the heavy wetness in her hair, dripping down her neck — no longer feeling like rain, more like a reminder that in the forest, the rain never really stops.

It only waits for you to forget it — then touches you again, just to see if you’re still alive.

Red stood silent now, staring into something formless, no longer hoping for signs or visions, when — into her field of view, smoothly, almost like a mistake — movement entered.

She didn’t recognize it at first — only after a second look, when in the air, just above eye level, appeared wings — large, damp, yet radiant, as if the rain never touched them at all.

A swallowtail.

Not from a book. From the air. Reddish, with a crisp pattern echoing her own hair, as though it had been shaped in her image.

It didn’t flutter. It moved with dignity. It didn’t seek warmth — it was testing who still had the strength to follow beauty, even when soaked, frozen, and lost.

The butterfly didn’t come closer. And didn’t flee. It moved sideways, beckoning and luring, and each stop was no accident — it was measured.

Red watched. For a long time. First — with doubt. Then — with wonder.

How are you not afraid of the rain? she thought. How are you even flying?

And she wasn’t surprised anymore when she stepped after it. Not quickly. Not in a rush. But with the cautious certainty of one walking where there are no promises — only a chance.

The butterfly moved lazily, but its path was straight — not with the wind, but through it. It didn’t seek a trail. It made one — by the mere fact of its motion.

And Red followed. Through the rain. Through the fading forest, where the trees grew sparser, where moss gave way to stone, where the air no longer smelled of dampness — but something else. Dry. Steady. Breathing from afar.

That’s how they reached the cliff. Not abruptly, but like in a dream — when you suddenly realize the world is opening before you, and you don’t know how you got there, but everything in you knows you’ve arrived just right.

Below lay the valley. Beautiful. Alive. Like cloth stretched between hills. Green, with threads of streams, with dots of trees, with paths winding — not like roads, but like scars. Scars that didn’t mar the beauty — but made it true.

And in the very heart of the valley — there it was. Grandmother’s house.

Not white. Not decorative. Dark. Deep. Made of old, brown brick — damp at the base, nearly black at the edges, as though time hadn’t ruined it — only thickened it.

This wasn’t just a house. It was a manor — large, massive, with distinct right and left wings, with a roof of many tiers, every line a scar, and turrets that didn’t strive upward, but bit into the sky.

The central section — slightly raised, with a balcony like a watchpoint, and a gallery — long, latticed, where you couldn’t tell whether people walked… or something was kept.

To the side, like an extension — more buildings: one — low, with a tiled roof and chimney, another — long, like a barn or winter garden, but with floor-length windows. They didn’t look out — they absorbed.

In front of the manor — a garden. Tidy, gridded, with bright flowers — not wild, planted. Each bed — a composition. Everything in order. Even the grass trimmed. Beauty as order. Order as power.

Behind the manor — another garden. Darker. Trees closer together. Greenery denser. No one strolled there. They hid.

And this entire ensemble, in a valley bathed in soft light, looked not like a center — but like a condition.

It was a dark spot, but not ominous — collected, saturated, as if everything around lived — and it waited.

Nothing about it was open — but everything said: if you enter, you won’t leave the same.

The windows didn’t shine. They didn’t reflect the sky like mirrors — they observed it. Like eyes, that don’t catch reflections — they assess.

And the whole manor seemed not like a building, but a figure. Someone sitting upright, staring without blinking. Not calling. But waiting.

Like a fairy tale. But not the kind read to children. The kind women don’t talk about.

The butterfly didn’t vanish.

When Red stopped at the edge of the cliff, held her breath to take in everything she saw, and felt something tremble under her ribs — not from fear, from beauty — she expected the butterfly to simply dissolve, fly away, like guides do when their purpose is fulfilled.

But no. It stayed. Not in the air — in the space. Slightly to the side. As if on the edge of her vision — but every time Red looked, the butterfly was exactly where it needed to be, to help her take the next step.

It didn’t call. Didn’t approach. It moved — gently, confidently, in the direction where the grass grew lower, and the slope — gentler.

Red noticed: this wasn’t just flitting. It was movement with purpose. As if the wings chose the air carefully, and the pauses in flight weren’t rest — but checks: Are you still coming?

She walked. Slowly. But with a trust that couldn’t be explained. Not in the butterfly — in herself, in the one who finally understood: this isn’t a game. This is an invitation.

The path was narrow. Almost invisible from standing height. But it was there. In places laid with stones, in others simply trampled underfoot — by those who had walked before her.

The butterfly — still ahead. Sometimes rising to show direction. Sometimes — landing in the grass. Sometimes — vanishing behind a bend, but the moment it turned past a tree, Red could already feel: this way.

So they walked. One — on feet. The other — on wings. Both — inside a story that explained nothing. It was to be accepted as it was.

The descent was careful. Not because it was steep — but deliberate, as if someone had ensured the way down wouldn’t be a trial, but a transition.

The butterfly no longer appeared. As if it had decided the mission was complete. Now it was up to her.

Red walked, barely feeling the dust brushing her boots, the cloak’s hem catching on grass. All her senses dulled by one thought: The house is down there. But before reaching it — she would encounter something else.

A bend. A second. A small gully with stones. And — a flat space.

At first she thought it was part of the valley. A field. Some sheds. But then, step by step, rooftops emerged. Houses. Sounds.

A village.

How had she not noticed it earlier — she didn’t know. Perhaps the hills hid it. Or perhaps her eyes searched only for the manor.

But now it was here. Amid narrow streets — edged with stonework. Among people — plain, dressed in rough fabric. Men fixing a fence. Women hanging laundry on lines. Someone fussing with a basket, someone carrying water, someone standing by a door, watching her — not with curiosity — but with indifference.

She walked a little farther. And when she saw the first person coming toward her — an elderly man with a basket in his hands — she stopped. Not hesitantly. Just… she needed to know.

«Excuse me,» she said. «What’s the name of this village?»

He looked at her. Briefly. Without surprise. As if he’d known someone like her would show up eventually.

«This is Old Bosom,» he said. «You heading down, I take it?»

She nodded. He didn’t ask anything else. Just kept walking.

And she stayed behind. With that name — too soft, like skin you touch and can’t tell if it’s still alive.

And only now — for the first time on this entire path — did she feel hunger. Not sharp. Muted. But already — animal.

An inn crouched at the corner, under a peeling sign — on it was a wolf, or a dog, or a fox — something with a tail and a smirk.

She went in. Not because she decided to. Because her body stepped forward on its own.

The door creaked — not loudly, more like a sigh, as if it hadn’t opened for strangers in a long time.

Or maybe it opened too often — but never for those who came without invitation.

Inside it was warm. Not from a fire — from thick air, saturated with bread, fat, herbs, and something else — as though the walls hadn’t soaked up smoke, but the memory of someone’s skin.

The room was low, dim, with ceiling beams. Shadows in the corners. Behind the counter — a woman in her forties, thick braid, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, with a gaze that saw everything but remembered nothing.

She nodded, without asking who had entered. And that was all.

There were guests. A pair of men at a back table — eating silently, not raising their eyes. An old woman by the window — spinning yarn. No servers visible. But plates appeared. Which meant: someone was there.

Red didn’t know what to do. Her legs took her to a bench by the wall, closer to the hearth, where the wood crackled, and the air was dry.

She sat. Her cloak still dripping. Her boots — dirty. But no one looked.

No one approached. And there was a strange peace in that. As if she’d already been expected, but no one intended to interfere.

She looked around. On the wall — an old tapestry. The image — dark, faded, but among the patterns, she could make out a figure in a cloak. Red. Almost like hers.

She didn’t have time to think — when a bowl was quietly placed before her. Soup. Or rather, a stew. Hot. Steaming. No bread. Beside it — a clay pitcher with water.

She didn’t immediately realize who was tending the tables. At first it seemed everything happened by itself — food appeared, pitchers changed, and no one moved.

But then her eyes caught it — a movement in the shadows.

Two.

A boy and a girl. About eight. Maybe younger. Both in simple gray shirts. Both with pale, neatly kept hair — as if someone had been obsessed with the idea that everything here had to be clean — even the children.

They moved silently. In sync. He carried the dishes. She — the pitcher. He set them down. She wiped the rim. And neither looked anyone in the eye.

Red watched. Discreetly. And with every motion they made, she felt more uneasy — not because of them, but because of the sense that they weren’t playing, or learning. They were serving.

Too well. Too flawlessly.

Probably the innkeeper’s children. Or grandchildren. But neither she nor anyone else smiled at them. No one spoke to them. No praise. They were part of the furniture. Part of the establishment. Like the tapestry. Like the fire.

They passed by her. Not fast. Not slow. In a rhythm she knew — from the house where she’d lived with her mother and sisters, from the kitchen where girls scurried barefoot, from the soft noises that made up silence — not as peace, but as command.

She didn’t say a word. Neither did they. But when the girl wiped a drop from her bowl’s rim, and the boy placed a dish of boiled grains beside it — without asking — she knew: her presence was already accepted. Here. In this house. In this village. On this path.

She nearly finished the stew, leaving a little at the bottom. Not from fullness — from a strange feeling that it shouldn’t be finished. Never all the way.

The children were gone. The hearth crackled evenly. The other guests seemed to have disappeared — or simply sat so quietly the air couldn’t detect their presence.

And then she heard footsteps.

Not soft like the children’s. Heavy. Resonant. Confident — like those who know they’re in charge, even if their name isn’t on the sign.

A man in a leather apron stopped beside her. As tall as the doorframe. Hands — broad. Jaw — unshaven. Eyes — not hostile, but far too sober.

He didn’t greet her. Just looked into the bowl, then at her. And said, not asking, but declaring:

«Seven coins.»

She froze. Not in surprise. But because she knew: she had none. At all. Not a single one.

Her hand moved instinctively to a fold in her cloak, to the bundle — but it held nothing she could offer. Everything inside it was meant for someone else.

She raised her eyes. For the first time — directly. And said calmly, without defiance:

«I don’t have any money.»

The innkeeper wasn’t surprised. Not in the slightest. He tilted his head a little — as if evaluating not her answer, but how she gave it.

«Food’s not free here,» he said, not unkindly. «Not even for someone in red.»

His gaze passed over her cloak. But didn’t linger.

«So,» he continued, louder now, for all to hear, «you’ll have to pay some other way. Or ask whoever’s responsible for you.»

Pause. Silence rang again — like at a door that might be opened, or left shut. Forever.

«I can work it off,» she said, not looking away. «In the kitchen. I know how.»

He grunted. Not mockingly — like someone who’d heard it before.

«In the kitchen?» he repeated. «The kitchen’s already in perfect order. Hands there don’t get tired from heat — only from boredom.»

He stepped closer. The heat from his body was tangible. Not warmth — weight. As if not a man, but necessity stood beside her.

«If you’ve got nothing else,» he said, «you’ll pay with what you’ve got. Not at the trough, not scrubbing pans. I don’t need dishwashers. I need guests.»

He gestured toward the window — where behind the blurred glass, evening was falling, and the village was settling into its silent routine.

«People are at home now. Some with children, some with wine, some with empty hands. But if you go — in that cloak, with that walk, with your…» he slowly waved a hand through the air before her, as if pointing without touching, «…temperature — and say there’ll be a dance — they’ll come.»

She didn’t freeze in fear. She froze in understanding.

«I don’t know how to dance,» she admitted.

He smirked. Again — not cruelly. Like someone who knew: you’ll do it anyway.

«Who said it had to be good?» he said. «Just show them there’s something worth seeing.»

Silence stretched between them. Not a threat. A price. Already placed on the scales.

He looked at her for a few more seconds. Didn’t rush. Didn’t push. Just waited. The way people wait for an answer they’ve heard before. Often. From others.

Then he nodded. Once. And stepped aside to clear her path.

«You’ll go around the village,» he said evenly. «House to house. Porch to window. Tell them there’ll be a dance at the inn. New. Unusual. For anyone who wants.»

And he turned, as if the conversation was over. But he added, not looking back:

«Before sunset. After that — it’ll be too late.»

Red rose from the table and froze. The words hadn’t yet reached her muscles, but her body already knew: it was time.

«You won’t send someone with me?» she asked.

He turned. Smiled — not kindly. Like someone who’d seen the world.

«Why would I? If you want to run — you’ll run. If you don’t — you’ll come back. And if you think there’s anywhere to run — the forest will correct you.»

He left without looking back. And in that departure there was no rudeness. There was knowledge.

She remained by the threshold. The warm air of the tavern at her back. The chill of the descending evening before her. And a choice — which, in truth, wasn’t a choice at all. Because her body already knew what it had to do. Not to survive. To remain herself. Or find out who she was now.

She adjusted her cloak. And stepped out. Step by step. Into the street. Toward the first house. Toward the voices she had to approach — not like people, but like mirrors.

The air outside was colder than she expected. Not freezing — detached. Like someone seeing you for the first time, but instantly knowing where you came from.

Red stepped off the tavern’s porch. The cloak clung to her legs — from damp, from worry, from something that couldn’t be shaken off. She didn’t look back. Not out of pride. Because if she looked back now — her legs wouldn’t move.

The village wasn’t remote or dead — it was alive. But alive inside itself. Doors — ajar. Windows — covered with fabric. Smoke — curling from chimneys, and in every house — someone was there. But no one stepped out without reason.

She approached the first house — stone-built, with a carved lintel where birds were etched. Or beasts. Or symbols.

She knocked. Softly. A second — two — and a woman opened the door a crack. Wearing a kerchief, face lined — not elderly, but mature. She looked. A glance like weighing something.

«Good evening,» said Red.

The words came out steady. Without a tremble. But inside — something echoed like a bell.

«There will be a dance. At the tavern. Tonight. Only once. For everyone.»

The woman said nothing. Just nodded and closed the door. Didn’t slam it — just ended the contact.

As if it were about something ordinary.

Red was already walking away. Next house. Then another.

Some answered. Some watched from windows. Some didn’t answer at all.

But she repeated. The same words. Each time — not louder, but clearer. As if she were learning a language she hadn’t spoken before.

«There will be a dance at the tavern. Tonight. One time. For all.»

«A dance. Tonight. One time.»

«At the tavern. If you want. If you’re curious.»

«For everyone. Who chooses to come.»

Children — stared. Men — stayed silent. Women — understood before she even spoke.

And that was the hardest part. She didn’t know who would come. Didn’t know how they would look at her.

But she knew — it had already begun. Her boots were wet. Her shoulders — slightly lowered. But her face — held high. Because she couldn’t plead. Only call.

And with each «only once» she spoke, she felt — that «once» already lived somewhere ahead of her. And it would happen. Because she had given it away. With a word. With a promise.

She returned when the light over the village had already changed. Not evening — attuned. As if all the windows now weren’t lighting rooms, but watching outward — toward her.

Her cloak was slightly damp. Her feet — tired. Her chest — quiet and tight.

But her body no longer held that frozen stiffness that keeps you from taking the first step. Now, inside — it was hot. But not cozy. Waiting.

The tavern didn’t greet her with silence, but with sound. A muffled hum. A rustle of words. The breath of several dozen people who had come — and now waited.

She entered.

The space had changed. Not in shape — in state. The tables were pushed back toward the walls. At the center — an empty place. A stage. Without a platform. Without a curtain. Just — space. Slightly cleared of the everyday, but not yet made into a miracle.

And that was what frightened her.

The guests were there. Women — reserved. Men — not mocking, but watching with sharp attention. Some had brought children. Some — jugs. Some — empty hands, but an expectation that no one voiced.

To the side — by the hearth — sat the musicians. Not a band. A gathering. Three of them.

The first — an old man, nearly white-haired, in a torn vest, with a pipe in his hands, and eyes that held no age. Only hearing.

The second — tall, bony, with a tambourine. His fingers — long. But his hands — like a blacksmith’s. Around his neck — a string with a feather. He watched Red continuously, as if waiting for a cue — not to strike the drum, but the heart.

The third — a woman. A violin in her hands. Her clothes — black, but skillfully sewn. Her lips — holding a restrained smile. Her gaze — turned inward. She noticed nothing. Not until the music began.

No one called Red. No one applauded. But everything was already ready.

Her cloak had nearly dried, but still felt heavy. The body beneath — warm, flexible, tense — like just before a jump not yet imagined.

She crossed the room. Not hiding. Not posing. Just — walking. To the center. To the point where it would all happen.

Music started — suddenly. Not loudly. Not sharply. As if someone had opened a window, and wind slipped into the tavern without asking.

The pipe — long, drawn-out notes that didn’t lead — they held. As if time stretched, to give her a chance.

Red stood. Her cloak — closed. Her knees — slightly bent, not from fear, from readiness. Her hands — free. Her face — not a mask, not a challenge. Just her.

The first movements were careful. Not from shame — from wanting to do it right. A slow roll of the shoulder. A gentle tilt of the head. Her body moved ahead of her mind. As if remembering — not a lesson, but a distant, worn-out memory.

She had seen others dance. When no one was watching. When the lamps in the house went out. When only the mirror remained — and the question: is it still beautiful, if no one sees?

Now — they saw. At first silently. But their stares were tangible — like heat from the hearth.

She couldn’t hear the words. But by the lips — by the expressions — she could tell: someone said «beauty.» Another — «graceful.» A third — simply stared. Without blinking.

She kept going. Smoothly. Rhythmically. Her feet moved across the floor hesitantly, but honestly. As if she didn’t know the dance — but knew the music. Or rather — allowed herself to know it. Let it lead her. Pass through her spine and pour out through her wrists.

The music quickened. The violin joined in. And in that sound — laughter. And revelry.

And challenge.

Red felt it: she had to — stronger. Wider. Higher. Not like a performer. Like someone who had no choice but to keep dancing.

And she followed the rhythm. Her shoulders — brighter. Her hips — bolder. Her turns — wide, almost flying, yet still — contained.

The cloak had a life of its own. It wouldn’t obey. It opened — not deliberately, but strikingly. A glimpse — of a thigh. A flash — of bare calf. A moment — of breast in motion, not exposed, but breathing.

Still, she tried to keep it in place. Almost mechanically. Almost theatrically. As if the dance itself were a struggle with the fabric, which any second now would fall away.

The violin turned defiant. The string pulled taut — and burst into a frolic, as if everything long restrained had finally been granted permission to speak.

Red was no longer dancing — she was reveling. Which meant — flowing into the sound, letting it into her joints, her breath, her hair, the curve of her spine, the tilt of her head, into the steps that grew wider, braver, closer to herself.

And the cloak — no longer concealed. It interfered. It tried to slip off her shoulders, tangled around her legs, clung to her skin.

Sometimes her hands caught it. Sometimes they forgot. And the watchers saw that — this chase after a slipping veil. Not after mystery. After control.

But the music didn’t wait. The tambourine struck faster. The pipe squealed. And the body — moved forward.

And at one moment, a turn was too sharp. The cloak slid from one shoulder. She — caught it. Then — let it go again. Then — stopped catching it at all.

It hung — from the crook of her elbow. Then — from her wrist. And then — fell. Softly. Without a sound. It simply lay on the floor. As if it understood: its part was done.

The onlookers didn’t stir. Didn’t applaud. Didn’t speak.

But their gaze changed — focused. Not on the body — on how it moved, without hiding.

Red didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. She just danced past the fallen fabric — like passing a shadow. And moved on. With a lightness you can’t buy. With a truth that doesn’t need permission.

Now it wasn’t a pretty girl in a cloak dancing. It was her — Red — dancing. Dancing as nature itself had made her.

And the stage that wasn’t there turned into a space where every gaze became shadow, and every step of hers — light.

The movements weren’t precise — they were real. Her hips didn’t float — they led. Her shoulders weren’t shy — they spoke. Her hands didn’t try to please. They remembered what it meant — to be free.

A body that had never known the stage had become the stage. Flexible, strong, yielding like a branch — and yet steady, as if it knew: the whole valley was watching. Not with eyes. With longing.

No voice cried out. None spoke aloud. But in that room, there wasn’t a single breath that hadn’t stumbled over her silhouette.

She spun. Sometimes — slowly. Sometimes — in sudden bursts. And in those bursts, her breasts would flash — as shadows, as glints. The light caught the curve of her spine, her wrists, knees, stomach — everything usually hidden not by clothing, but by norms.

Now the norms were gone. There was only her. In her body. In the music. In the attention.

Red felt it — not with hands, not with skin, but deeper: in her belly, in her heart, in that place where desire is born before thought. That she was desired. Not the same by everyone — but unquestionably.

She was desired by those who watched — and more than that, she desired herself, in that moment, because no one else now defined where permission ended.

She was the permission.

Her body wasn’t perfect. It was alive. Not sculpted — but the kind of body you want to touch, not to possess — but to remember.

There was no theatrical precision. There was the natural looseness of young flesh that hasn’t yet learned when it’s supposed to be ashamed — and doesn’t want to.

Her breasts — not high, not round, but in motion — like breath. Sometimes visible. Sometimes lost in the flow, but in every turn their outline spoke louder than any voice.

Her waist — not narrow. Supple. Like the girls who don’t pose, but know how to bend for water, straighten with an armful of herbs, move not by plan but because rhythm lives in the body.

Her hips — strong. Her legs — not delicately shaped, but with that confidence of step that can’t be faked.

And her whole body — not a sculpture. A sound. A note held just a bit longer than it should be — and that’s why it’s remembered.

Her skin — light, but not pale. With pinkish patches where the blood ran close, with a faint web of veins visible only in shadow.

And as she spun — in the dance, in breath, in her own nakedness — no one could say exactly what made her beautiful. Because everything did. And nothing. It wasn’t beauty by measure. It was beauty — like the heat of anticipation. Like the desire to stay. And to see more.

But if, at that moment, you could go to each of those watching, each one who had supposedly come to look at the body, and ask what they liked most — every second person — maybe even every first — would probably say: her face.

Not because it was perfect. Or delicate. Or beautiful in the usual way.

It was alive.

Red’s face, in that moment, didn’t decorate the dance — it led it.

Her lips — didn’t smile. But neither were they tight. Relaxed, like in those who are too focused inward to care about appearances.

Her cheeks — flushed. Not from shame — from blood rising, from the heat of attention, from that earlier-mentioned heat of expectation that doesn’t flare — it seeps slowly into the skin.

Her gaze — direct. Not defiant. Not pleading. Focused.

Like someone who isn’t looking at the viewer — but through them, at what comes after. And in that gaze was more power than in her bare body, more revelation than in any movement of her hips. Because it held thought. Emotion. And control.

Those who watched — even if they had come expecting something cheap or easy — were now watching differently. They couldn’t take their eyes off her — not her body. Her face.

And while the music guided her body, it was this face that held the dance together. Held everyone. And spoke — without words: «I know you’re watching. I allow it. But only — as I permit you to.»

They couldn’t look away from her face. But they also couldn’t not notice the hair.

That hair was the beginning of everything. Red — not golden, not rust, but a flare between fire and earth, it fell across her shoulders, moved with every turn, and even when the body stilled — it kept living.

Damp at the temples. Sticking to her neck. Matted in strands that seemed to choose for themselves where to stay — and where to fall onto her chest, like a dare.

And in that untamed freedom was more eroticism than in the dance itself. Because it wasn’t a performance. It just was.

The color of her hair matched the cloak. But the cloak was cloth. The hair — a sign. A brand. A promise.

And those who watched understood — even if they couldn’t phrase it — that all of her wasn’t a masquerade. But a convergence. Between face and voice, between body and what lies hidden.

And someone among them, looking just a little lower, might have thought — with awe, not vulgarity: if the hair on her head is like that, then everything else — the parts we don’t see — must match in color. And in boldness.

None of the onlookers saw it, but her body didn’t need to be exposed. It breathed honestly, even in the places where breath is hidden from view. Where her belly ended, a stripe of russet silk began — not brazen, not thick, but like a path just formed through tall grass. Not burned in — revealed.

In her armpits — not a line, not a shadow — a fuzz. Soft. Reddish. Like a warm glint in the depth of a shadow. Not provocative — a reminder: this is all alive. Real. Unprepared.

And in that, strangely enough, there wasn’t savagery — there was dignity. No one had yet decided what she should be. She was — as she was born.

And if anyone was ever to change that — it wouldn’t be removal. It would be a second skin. A new name. A new role. But for now — everything in her was hers. And hers alone.

The music was already fading. The dance was ending — not in an explosion, but in a soft, circling breath. And everything in her, from ankles to nape, was a ringing fatigue that didn’t ask for rest — but asked to be stopped by touch.

And that touch — happened. Not openly. Not deliberately. But like a gesture left behind by sound, like the final note that doesn’t play — but finishes the phrase.

He — whoever he was — didn’t step into the center. He simply approached. One of those who had been sitting nearby.

Quietly. Without words. Without permission. But without violation. And his fingers — not rough, not greedy — slowly touched her stomach. Just below the navel. Where breath ends, and the body’s intuition begins.

Her skin didn’t flinch beneath the touch. Didn’t pull away. But didn’t invite, either. It accepted.

He didn’t go further. He lingered. Fingers resting on the border between her pubic bone and that russet curve of silk that seemed like a stray beam of light that had accidentally landed there.

Her gaze remained steady. Her face — unchanged. But in her body — something held still. As if that touch had placed a period. Not in the sentence — but in the key.

And in that silent moment there was no challenge, no fear. Only recognition. As if you — were you — and this was where the truth began.

He withdrew his hand. Gently. Unhurriedly. Like a man who hadn’t taken — but confirmed. And walked back into the hall, to join the faces — awed, serious, smiling, stunned.

And she still stood in the center. Alone. Bare. Real. And therefore — open.

Others didn’t approach right away. First — a step. Then — a pause. Then — another step. As though afraid to disturb the air where music still trembled.

The second touch wasn’t a gesture — but cloth. Soft, dry. Someone gently ran it down her back, then — along her neck, then — across her chest, absorbing drops of sweat she hadn’t noticed. Not rough. Not possessive. The way one wipes down a horse after a race. With respect for strength. With awe for movement.

Then — a hand. Not to her shoulder — to her cheek. Firm. Warm. Hesitant. Not like a strike. Like a gesture: «You’re here. You’re not a dream.»

She didn’t flinch. And didn’t smile. She just stood. As one stands after a rite. When all has been said — but everything still echoes.

The next touch was stranger. Fingers — slow, not abrupt — touched her breast. Not the whole — just the nipple. As if to make sure it was real. Not carved. Not painted. Not imagined. The nipple was tugged lightly — not boldly. As if checking: will she vanish if touched for real?

She didn’t vanish. And didn’t withdraw. She allowed it. Not because she had to. Because she already was — more than a body. She was an effect.

And everyone who had been watching, and all who had approached, no longer saw a woman. They saw a trace — from the dance, from the heat, from life brought for the first time to the center of the hall.

The innkeeper approached while all eyes were still on her — but were already beginning to shift, as though what had happened was complete. But not yet lived through.

In his hands — a bowl. Empty. Copper. Warm from his fingers.

He offered it — not commanding. Simply letting her take it. Leaned in and said in a half-voice, as if speaking not to her — but to the world:

«For something like this, people will pay. Not me. You. But if you gather a lot — I’ll take a share.»

She looked at the bowl. Then — at the hall. Faces — still attentive. No one laughed. No one looked away. And then she did something only she could have thought of — right now, in this moment, in this body, in this state where shame was no longer the enemy, but merely the starting point.

She took the bowl. Not in her hands. In her teeth. Not like a slave. Like a creature that no longer needs language. Only gesture.

And lowered herself. Onto all fours. Calmly. With dignity. As if this too were a dance — just a different one. More predator than submissive.

She moved between tables, between foreign shoes, boots, and heavy soles. Slowly. Deliberately. As though she read gazes through backs, and breath through tabletops.

The bowl swayed. Coins clinked. Carefully, almost shyly, each person dropped not just payment — but acknowledgment: that they hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t turned away, and wanted it to go on.

She felt the heat of their attention on her back. Not burning. Warming.