She thought she knew the forest well.
Every path, every breath of wind, every crackle under the leaves.
But tonight, the air felt different — heavier, almost alive.
Beneath the golden boughs, something was watching her.
Clutching her basket tight, Little Red Riding Hood followed the path they said was safe.
Her boots trod on fallen leaves, her velvet cloak slipped through the shadows.
The forest held its breath…
And among the red apples, another scent stirred — older, wilder.
The Wolf.
He didn’t need to show himself: she could feel his presence.
The rustle of a branch, a breath on her neck, the flutter of a heart answering his.
But this time, she didn’t tremble.
For she knew.
The tale they tell children is nothing but a lie.
The Wolf never devoured Little Red Riding Hood.
He taught her not to be afraid anymore.
That night, under the full moon, the prey rose up.
She brought the apple to her lips, bit without hesitation.
The taste of blood and fruit mingled on her tongue.
Then she lifted her head — and beneath the scarlet hood, a beast’s gaze opened.
The forest bowed.
Since that day, they say a figure in red prowls among the trees.
Sometimes girl, sometimes wolf.
She no longer flees the shadows: she has become their queen.