Chapter 1

The forest was darker than Hansel and Greg had expected. What had started as an exciting adventure—a bold trek into the heart of the woods—had gradually unraveled into unease. The trees were tightly packed, their skeletal branches clawing at the dimming sky, and the forest floor was a labyrinth of tangled roots and damp leaves.

Hansel took the lead, his tall, lean frame cutting through the brush with deliberate determination. A map was clutched in his hand, though its edges were damp and the ink had started to smear. “We just need to stay calm,” he said, more to himself than Greg. “If we keep walking, we’ll find the trail again.”

Behind him, Greg swatted at a low-hanging branch, his brown eyes darting nervously around their surroundings. His broader shoulders made it harder for him to move easily through the undergrowth, and his boots squelched with every step. “You’ve been saying that for the past two hours, Hansel,” he muttered, his voice tight. “Face it—we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost,” Hansel insisted, though the knot of worry in his stomach was growing. He glanced at the sky, where the sun was sinking fast, painting the horizon in streaks of deep orange and purple. “We just need to—”

“Need to what?” Greg interrupted, stepping over a gnarled root. “Keep wandering until we’re wolf food? Great plan.”

Hansel stopped in his tracks, turning to glare at his friend. “You’re not helping, you know.”

“Well, excuse me for pointing out the obvious!” Greg snapped, throwing up his hands. “We should’ve stayed in the village, Hansel. At least there, we knew where our next meal was coming from!”

Hansel clenched his jaw, his blue eyes narrowing. He knew Greg was scared, and truthfully, so was he. But admitting it wouldn’t do either of them any good. He forced himself to take a deep breath, his voice softening. “Look, I get it. I’m hungry, too. And tired. But panicking won’t get us out of here. Let’s just keep moving until we find a clearing or something, okay?”

Greg sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Fine. But if we don’t find something soon, I’m climbing a tree and sleeping there. Better chance of surviving than down here.”

Hansel managed a small smirk. “You, climbing a tree? I’d pay to see that.”

“Hey, I’m surprisingly agile,” Greg shot back, a flicker of humor in his tone. “Unlike you, giraffe legs.”

“Giraffe legs?” Hansel raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. “Coming from the guy who trips over his own feet?”

Greg chuckled despite himself, some of the tension easing from his posture. “Fair enough.”

They walked in silence for a while, the forest growing darker and quieter with every passing minute. The sounds of birds and insects had faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the crunch of their footsteps. The oppressive quiet was almost worse than the dark.

Hansel glanced at Greg. His friend’s normally easygoing demeanor was nowhere to be seen; his broad shoulders were hunched, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Hansel felt a pang of guilt. Greg was right—they should have stayed in the village. Life had been hard there, but at least it had been safe.

“How much water do you have left?” Hansel asked, trying to focus on something practical.

Greg shook his canteen, the sloshing sound weak. “Not enough.”

Hansel frowned, his gaze scanning the trees for any sign of a stream or pond. But the forest seemed endless, a sprawling mass of shadow and silence. He swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach tightening.

“What if we don’t make it back?” Greg asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Hansel stopped walking, turning to face his friend. “Hey,” he said firmly, placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “We’re going to make it back. We just need to keep going, okay? One step at a time.”

Greg nodded, though his expression remained bleak. “I hope you’re right.”

They pressed on, their exhaustion mounting with every step. Just when Hansel thought they couldn’t go any further, a faint, almost imperceptible scent drifted through the air. He stopped, his head tilting slightly.

“Do you smell that?”

Greg sniffed, his nose wrinkling. “What is that? It smells… sweet.”

Hansel didn’t answer, too focused on the scent. It was warm and inviting, like fresh-baked cookies. His stomach growled loudly, and he shot Greg a sheepish look.

Greg’s eyes lit up for the first time in hours. “Are we near a village? Maybe there’s a bakery nearby!”

“I don’t think so,” Hansel said, frowning. “We would’ve seen it on the map.”

Greg didn’t seem to care. He was already following the scent, his earlier weariness forgotten. “Come on, Hansel. If there’s food, we’ve got to find it.”

Hansel hesitated, his instincts urging caution. But hunger and exhaustion clouded his judgment, and he found himself following Greg through the trees.

They followed the scent until the woods began to thicken again, the last traces of daylight bleeding away behind them. The aroma—sickly sweet now, almost artificial—grew fainter the deeper they went, until eventually, it was gone altogether.

“Where’d it go?” Greg turned in a slow circle, sniffing the air like a dog. “I swear it was right here.”

Hansel crouched, scanning the forest floor. No footprints. No crumbs. No chimney smoke. Nothing. Just the same gnarled roots, soggy leaves, and impenetrable dark. “Maybe we imagined it.”

Greg’s stomach growled loud enough to make the trees echo. “I don’t think my stomach imagined anything.”

Hansel rose slowly. The tension was back in his shoulders, sharper now, digging in like cold fingers. “We need to stop for the night.”

Greg stared at him. “Here? In this horror-movie patch of nowhere?”

“You want to keep stumbling around in the dark and break your leg?”

Greg didn’t answer. He just looked around, shivering slightly. The forest had gone dead silent again.

Eventually, they found a small clearing—no more than a bare patch of earth surrounded by black trunks and thorny brush. It was hardly inviting, but it was flat and dry enough. Hansel dropped his pack, and Greg followed suit with a groan, sitting heavily on a fallen log.

Hansel knelt and tried to start a fire with what little dry kindling he could scrape together. He had a flint, but his fingers were clumsy with cold and fatigue. Sparks flew, fizzled. Nothing caught.

Greg watched him for a while, then stood and wandered toward the edge of the clearing, peering into the dark. “Feels like something’s watching us.”

Hansel didn’t look up. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Don’t. Say. That.”

Finally, a small flame caught—a fragile, flickering ember. Hansel shielded it with his hands and slowly fed it twigs, coaxing it into a meager fire that barely reached his ankles.

They sat close together, knees brushing, both silently staring into the little fire like it was their last connection to the world they knew. It was.

Hansel finally broke the silence. “Remember when we thought this would be fun?”

Greg snorted. “Yeah. You said it’d be just like one of those stories. Woods, adventure, maybe even treasure.”

Hansel gave a tired chuckle. “We got the woods, at least.”

Greg leaned back, looking up. “I can’t even see the stars.”

The sky was smothered by clouds and tree branches. The darkness above felt heavy, pressing down on them like a weight.

“We’ll find our way out tomorrow,” Hansel said, but the words felt hollow in his mouth. He wasn’t even sure which direction they’d come from anymore.

Silence settled in again, broken only by the occasional snap of wood in the fire. A cold wind stirred the leaves. Far off, something moved—a soft crunch in the underbrush. Both boys froze.

“What was that?” Greg whispered.

Hansel slowly reached for a nearby branch. It was half-rotten and too short to be useful, but he held it anyway.

The sound didn’t return.

Minutes passed. Then hours.

They didn’t talk much after that. At some point, Hansel nodded off, head drooping forward. Greg stayed awake longer, twitchy and alert, eyes darting toward every shadow, every gust of wind. Eventually, even his fear gave way to exhaustion.

When they woke, the fire had long since gone out.

Hansel’s clothes were damp with morning dew. His back ached from the hard ground. Greg was already sitting up, pale and hollow-eyed.

“I didn’t sleep,” Greg muttered.

Hansel rubbed his eyes. “Any noises?”

“A few. Nothing came close. I think.” Greg paused. “I hate it here.”

“Same.”

They packed up in silence, chewing on the last of their food—dry strips of jerky that tasted like wood and regret. No water. No map anymore. The ink had run completely overnight, turning the parchment into a soggy blur of lines and nonsense.

Hansel looked toward the treeline. “Pick a direction?”

Greg shrugged. “Left?”

Hansel nodded. “Left it is.”

And they walked.

The ground sloped downward. The forest thickened again, growing more twisted, more tangled. The sunlight never quite broke through. Hours passed, marked only by their labored breathing and the sound of shoes dragging over leaves.

Eventually, Hansel stumbled. He caught himself on a tree trunk, but his leg cramped hard. “Hold on,” he gasped, kneeling.

Greg dropped beside him. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just… need a second.”

Greg stared at him. “What if we’re walking in circles?”

“We’re not,” Hansel said automatically, though he wasn’t sure anymore. He couldn’t remember passing that odd tree with the triple trunk. Or maybe he had.

“I don’t want to die out here,” Greg said quietly.

Hansel didn’t have an answer.

They sat there for a long time, wordless, two boys lost in a forest that didn’t want to let them go.

And somewhere in the distance, faint and syrupy-sweet, the scent returned.

Hansel was the first to smell it again—sharp and sweet, like warm sugar and cinnamon hanging thick in the air.

He raised his head slowly, nostrils flaring, heart kicking in his chest. The scent was stronger this time. Not fleeting, like before. It wrapped around him, coaxed him forward with invisible fingers. It smelled like caramelizing sugar on a stovetop. Like baked apples and honeyed bread and buttercream frosting melting in the heat.

Greg turned his head toward the scent too. “There it is again,” he murmured, eyes glazed with a kind of distant hunger.

They looked at each other. No words. Just an unspoken agreement and the creak of tired joints as they pulled themselves up and followed it.

Their legs were stiff and sore, but the smell pulled them like a rope around the ribs. The deeper they walked, the stronger it became. It was no longer just enticing—it was overwhelming. A thick perfume of roasted nuts and melting chocolate, like the warmth of a bakery you forgot existed but had always missed.

Then, through the trees, a shimmer of color.

Hansel stopped short. “Is that—?”

They stepped into a wider clearing, this one much larger than the pitiful one they’d slept in, and there it stood—impossible, obscene, and glorious.

A house made entirely of candy.

The roof was tiled in enormous slabs of chocolate, melting gently in the morning sun. Licorice ropes wound down the gutters like festive vines. The windows were panes of stained sugar glass—red, gold, and emerald—and glowed with the inner light of something warm inside.

The walls were gingerbread. Not just cookies stacked like bricks, but whole slabs of it, golden-brown and thick, detailed with white icing that traced curls and swirls like fine woodwork. Gumdrops the size of their fists were embedded along the edges, glowing like candied jewels. Peppermint poles held up the awning over the door, and little frosted mushrooms sprouted near the walkway, which was paved with sugar cookies.

Hansel’s jaw had gone slack. Greg stared like he might cry.

“This… this can’t be real,” Greg whispered, voice cracking.

“Do you care?” Hansel whispered back.

“Nope.”

They ran.

Whatever caution had lived in them was drowned by sheer hunger and awe. By the promise of food that didn’t taste like damp bark and regret. Hansel reached the house first, running his fingers along the wall. The gingerbread was warm. It crunched under his touch and flaked off in perfect chunks.

He shoved a piece in his mouth.

It was perfect. Soft inside, crisp at the edges, honey and clove and cinnamon exploding on his tongue like memories he didn’t know he had.

Greg was already tearing a gumdrop from the wall, biting into it like it was a ripe fruit. “Oh my god,” he moaned through a mouthful of sugar. “This is unreal.”

They gorged themselves, not thinking, not speaking. Just eating. Hansel scooped icing off the walls like frosting from a birthday cake, licking it from his fingers. Greg broke off a licorice vine and slurped it down, red syrup sticking to his chin. He grabbed a cookie from the walkway and laughed with his mouth full.

“This is insane,” he said. “We’re dreaming. We’re actually dreaming.”

Hansel didn’t answer. He was too busy prying a caramel doorknob off its stem and crunching it between his teeth.

They were halfway through ripping a sugar window loose—Greg had leaned up against a peppermint post for leverage—when the door creaked open behind them.

Both boys froze.

The door didn’t bang or fly open with menace. It simply eased open with a smooth, quiet swing. The warmth from inside spilled over the doorstep, brushing against their faces like the breath of a furnace lined with cookies.

And then the man stepped out.

He didn’t look like a threat. Not at first. He was tall and lean, wearing a loose, dusted apron over a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His hair was chestnut brown, short but messy in a way that looked effortless. His skin was smooth, almost too smooth—like porcelain warmed by firelight.

But it was his eyes that stopped them.

They were green—vivid, almost glowing. Not the green of moss or grass, but something otherworldly. Like emeralds soaked in candlelight. His gaze cut through them like glass, yet his expression was soft. Welcoming.

“Well now,” he said, voice rich and calm. “You boys look hungry.”

Hansel stumbled backward a step. “I—I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to—”

“Nonsense.” The man smiled. His teeth were white and even. “You’re more than welcome to help yourselves. That’s what it’s here for.”

Greg was panting a little, as if the sweetness had overloaded his system. “Wait. You made this place?”

“I live here.” The man nodded slowly. “And I always keep it stocked for those who need it. The woods aren’t kind, especially to boys like you.”

Hansel glanced at Greg, who was licking frosting from his hand like a dog. Everything about this screamed wrong—but also right. The food was real. The man wasn’t yelling. The scent inside the house was even stronger than outside—baked fruit, vanilla, something dark and delicious he couldn’t name.

“You look like you need more than a few bites off the wall,” the man said. He stepped aside and gestured toward the open door. “Please. Come in. Sit. Warm yourselves. Rest. You’ll feel better in no time.”

Greg didn’t hesitate. He stepped through the doorway as if pulled by gravity. Hansel stayed where he was, still breathing hard, chest tight.

The man looked at him, and his smile deepened—though not unkindly. “You don’t have to be afraid. You’re safe here.”

Hansel’s feet moved before his brain made the decision.

He crossed the threshold.

The warmth inside the house enveloped him instantly, washing away the cold ache of the woods, the fear, the exhaustion. It was like stepping into a memory. A dream. The scent hit him full-force: toasted almond, warm honey, baked peaches, hints of chocolate and cinnamon and something unplaceable, like nostalgia laced with sugar.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And the man with green eyes smiled again, his face serene, his eyes unreadable. “Let’s get you boys something real to eat.”