Mother is dead two winters now. But the axe still knows Red’s grip.

“What a big mouth you have,” Red whispers.

And on the windowsill, Grandmother’s teeth—set in a glass, clean and quiet, finally at rest. “The wolf is not the monster, child. The monster is the path they forced you to walk alone.” — From Mother’s letter, final line.

“That’s the short way. Take the long path. The bluebells are late this year.”

“What big hands you have.”

By the time Red reaches the cottage, the door is already open. Inside, the fire is low. The figure in the bed wears Grandmother’s flannel nightdress. The ears are too pointed. The hands too clawed. The smile too wide.

“Eleni.”

The wolf pulls back the blanket. Not to devour. To show the ribs beneath, the hollow chest. Not Grandmother’s body. Her own. The wolf has been wearing Grandmother like a coat for three days.

Red steps closer. The wolf’s scent—pine, wet stone, something ancient and female—fills the room.

Between them, a new axe. Not for wolves. For firewood.

“The better to say your real name,” the wolf replies.

No one has spoken it since Mother died. Red feels it rise in her throat like a hook.

Red knows a trap when she hears one. She also knows that the short path passes the clearing where they hanged the last wolf. She takes the long way.

“The better to hold you.”

The wolf follows. Not close. Not threatening. Just there , like a second shadow.