Gray wolf

The path had long since ceased to be a path. Roots wove themselves into loops, clinging to her hem as if they were trying to hold her back. The air smelled damp and metallic—like before a thunderstorm, only with no hope of rain. Little Red Riding Hood walked, clutching a small penknife in her fingers. The blade was tiny, almost toy-like, and that made it even more terrifying: her mother had given it to her "to protect her from predators," but in this forest, the knife seemed a mockery.

And then he stepped out of the shadows.

Not just any wolf—huge, heavy, with fur the color of ash after a fire. His eyes didn't sparkle like in fairy tales; they were dull, as if nothing had been reflected in them for a long time. But when he tilted his head slightly, something completely un-beastly flashed in his gaze—hot, greedy, almost human. This only made it worse: as if the beast had donned someone else's familiar mask and was now playing with it.

"Mmm..." he drawled, and the sound rolled through the tree trunks like the creak of an unoiled door. "Dear Little Red Riding Hood... How delicious you smell."

He snapped his teeth right next to her leg—not to bite, but to make her hear. To understand: he can do it.

Little Riding Hood backed away, and the root, as if on purpose, caught her heel. She nearly fell, clutching the air as if it were a lifeline.

"What do you want? Go away!" Her voice broke, betraying a tremor. She didn't recognize herself: somewhere inside, everything had shrunk into an icy lump, and her fingers clenched the knife until it glowed white, as if it could grow larger, turn into a sword, if she really wanted it.

"Oh... Baby, there's no need to be afraid." He sniffed the air, tilting his head, and there was something un-animalistic, too attentive, in this movement. "Where are you going? To see your granny?"

"Yes... to her..." she whispered, surprised herself by why she was even answering. As if not keeping silent would make him any less scary. But silence would have been more honest.

The wolf bared his teeth but didn't move. He simply retreated slightly, as if giving her the false sense that she could pass. And she moved—quickly, almost running, clinging to the air as if it were a support.

Grandmother's house stood on the edge of the clearing, dark and quiet.