Hansel and Gretel lived in a world that felt more like a the dark world than a home. Their stepmother called their hunger “discipline,” but the children knew she simply wanted them gone. One night, she told their father to abandon them deep in the forest. He obeyed, trembling, as if he already knew they might never return.

Hansel tried to mark their path with small wood splinters, but the forest devoured every trace. Their father disappeared among the trees, whispering “I’m sorry,” leaving the children to wander a different kind of fairy tale—one where shadows breathed and paths twisted unnaturally.

Then they saw it—a house glowing faintly in the shadows, a candy House built from sugar walls and caramel beams. The air smelled sickly sweet, almost alive. Desperate, they tore off pieces of it to eat.

The door opened.

A tall woman stepped out, smiling too widely. Her eyes were cold and glassy, her skin like wax. “Come in, little ones,” she said, her voice warm yet hollow. Inside, the candy house was carved with strange symbols; shadows moved like creatures in the corners, and small bones lay hidden.

The witch fed them cakes and warm bread. Hansel ate eagerly, but Gretel noticed: chains under the table, whispers behind the walls, a cauldron that never cooled. At night, she heard dragging sounds, like something trapped beneath the dark world of the house itself.

By morning, Hansel had changed—skin unnaturally rosy, eyes dull. The witch pushed more food toward him, shaping him into something tender and fat. Gretel realized the truth: this different kind of fairy tale was one where children became meals.

That night, she locked Hansel in a sugar-coated cage and forced Gretel to clean the oven. But Gretel was clever. She sharpened hardened candy into tiny blades and whispered to Hansel, “Tomorrow. Be ready.”

At dawn, the witch ordered Gretel to check the oven. Pretending confusion, Gretel lured her forward—and pushed her in.

The witch screamed as the flames twisted in unnatural colors, until silence fell. The candy house began to collapse—walls melting, symbols burning, bones turning to dust. Hansel’s cage unlocked as if the dark world itself exhaled its last breath.

The forest, once hostile, cleared a path for them. At its edge, they found their father, thin and guilt-ridden. Together, they returned home—survivors of a different kind of fairy tale, wary and older than their years.

And though they lived, Hansel and Gretel never again trusted anything that smelled of sugar.

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