That was what our village used to sound like. It doesn’t anymore. The fog has driven people inside, and they only come out when they absolutely must. The bitter cold doesn’t help.
But in my dream, it’s warm and sunny, and everything looks how it should. The fog hasn’t taken over the village. The fields haven’t burned. There hasn’t been a famine.
Hansel still smiles at me. I can’t make out most of what he’s saying, but just from his expression, I think he’s talking to me about taffy.
He always wanted taffy.
We must agree to go get some, because at some point in the dream I turn around and find him eating a piece. He offers me some, and it’s sweet. I haven’t tasted sweets like this in so long.
In the dream, I close my eyes and savor it.
I don’t know when it ends. I don’t know if it does.
When I wake up, I think I’m still there. For a moment there is peace and hope. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that.
Still in the summer I dreamed of. I’m warm under the covers, and the pillow is soft under my head, and it smells like Hansel’s cottage. I can’t remember why I’m sleeping here. Did I run here for shelter from a storm? Did we stay up too late talking?
My heart sinks as the memories of last night come back to me. One by one, the memories school me.
It wasn’t a late-night conversation or a summer storm that brought me here. It was the witch. Her curse and our torment.
I’m in this bed, in Hansel’s house, because I forced myself out of my house and to his doorstep. I came inside and looked him in the face while he glared at me. I told him about the rocks leading to my house, and the rocks in my living room, and how I know she’s back.
We’ll talk in the morning, Hansel said.
I keep my eyes squeezed shut. The mattress might be thin and hard, and the blanket is threadbare in places, but I’m warm and safe for the moment, and I don’t want the moment to end.
I give myself to the count of five, breathing slow and pretending I’m still asleep, then get up and wash my face in the little basin in the corner. It’s freezing outside the bed. The heat from the fire doesn’t reach into the tiny bedrooms, and if it did, it would be a waste of firewood. I was warm enough while I slept.
Once I’ve dried my face, I tug the blanket off the bed and wrap it around my shoulders. It’s early, but I can hear movement in the kitchen.
I take a deep breath and leave the tiny bedroom. It’s right next to the slightly bigger room where Hansel sleeps. I peek in and find the blanket made up. It doesn’t look slept in. I didn’t hear him get in bed before I fell asleep.
The only thing that makes it easier to go to the main room is that the fireplace is there, and it will be warmer. I’ve been craving heat, like everyone else in town, so I square my shoulders and go, my thick winter socks almost silent on the floor.
Hansel’s in the kitchen. One look at him tells me he hasn’t slept. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he’s wearing a burdened expression along with yesterday’s clothes. He’s got his coat on, and his back is to me. The fire crackles in the hearth, throwing off as much heat and light as when I went to sleep.
There’s a bag hanging on the hook by my cloak and my bag.
Hansel has already packed.
Hope springs in my chest. I can’t go back alone. It was torture the last time and I don’t know what waits for me. But she haunts me. I have to go and see this to the end.
I pray he comes with me and seeing the bag offers me hope.
I want to hide under the blanket. I want to disappear, just like I wanted to disappear yesterday. But I can’t go back now. I need to be certain Hansel understands that what’s happening is real.
I wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders, my chest clenching, and pad across to the kitchen table.
Hansel cracks an egg into a pan on the stove, then glances over his shoulder at me. He lifts his chin in a quick acknowledgment, but doesn’t say a word.
It’s been years since I’ve spoken to him in confidence. After what happened, when we came home, there was concern that drifted us apart.
We have to talk, but I can’t say I’m in a hurry to start the conversation. The quiet used to be comfortable between us. Now a thick tension hangs in the air and makes my throat ache. The last thing I want to do is talk about the past, or the witch, or the stones, so I sit there in silence while Hansel cooks.
I can’t help looking at him.
He’s taller than he was when we were younger. His shoulders are broader. He’s on the slim side, but then—everyone in the village is. That’s what happens when there’s a famine, and a wildfire, and when most of us are on the edge of starving.
