They always talk about the path through the woods as if it's some straight line—start here, end there, stay out of trouble in between. But that's a lie. The woods don't work that way. They twist. They pull. And if you're not careful, they'll lead you somewhere you didn't mean to go.
I should've known better.
My cloak snapped at my calves with each step, the weight of the woven red fabric clinging to my shoulders like a secret. The forest around me was unusually quiet—no birdsong, no rustling. Just the crunch of my boots on a dirt path that narrowed more with every mile. I was supposed to be heading to my grandmother's cottage. A simple trip. Deliver bread, check in, come home.
But the moment I saw her, sitting on a mossy stump with her head in her hands, I knew my day wasn't going to go as planned.
She didn't look up when I stopped in front of her. Her dress was torn at the hem, flecked with cinders and soot. One shoe dangled from her fingertips—cheap, worn, the heel broken. I could see the dirt on her knees, the faint bruises across her arms. But there was a kind of dignity in her posture, like someone who refused to be defeated even as the world kicked her in the ribs.
"You alright?" I asked, resting a hand on my hip.
She startled like I'd slapped her. Her eyes flicked to mine—wide, watery, the kind of blue that looks like it might crack if you touch it. She blinked, as if trying to remember how to speak.
"I—" She faltered, then tried again. "I'm fine."
Her voice was soft. Controlled. But there was a wobble in it, a hairline fracture.
"You're not fine," I said, crouching in front of her. "You're alone. In the middle of the forest. With one shoe."
She laughed bitterly, lifting the shoe as if to toast my accuracy. "Well. When you say it like that…"
I waited.
After a beat, she said, "I'm Cinderella."
The name hung in the air like a challenge. Like I was supposed to recognize it.
I didn't. So I just nodded. "Nice to meet you."
She tilted her head. "You don't know me?"
"Should I?"
"Most people do," she muttered, looking down again. "Or at least they know about… them."
She didn't explain who "them" was, but I could guess. Her face, her dress, the one shoe—it told a familiar story. One I'd heard in whispers. Stepmother. Stepsisters. Ashes. Orders barked in cold voices. I'd read it before in other people's eyes.
I glanced up the path. It stretched ahead like a promise I didn't quite trust.
"Where were you headed?" I asked.
"The royal palace," she said, almost laughing at herself. "The prince is hosting a ball tonight. I was going to go."
I raised an eyebrow. "In that dress?"
"Like I said," she muttered, "it was a plan."
She stood slowly, wincing as she balanced on one foot. The broken shoe clattered to the ground.
"But it doesn't matter. It's too late now."
"Why?" I asked.
She looked at me, and for the first time, her pride cracked. Just a little.
"Because I've never had a chance," she whispered. "Not really."
There was something so raw about the way she said it—so quietly furious—that it caught me off guard. I didn't know this girl. Didn't owe her anything. But still… I found myself saying:
"Come on."
She blinked. "What?"
"You want to go to the ball?" I said, brushing off my cloak. "Then let's go."
She looked stunned. "You'd help me?"
I shrugged. "I'm not doing anything else. Besides, I want to see what kind of place throws a party for a prince and forgets half its people."
She stared at me for a long moment—like she wasn't sure if I was real.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
It was small, shy, and for the first time, honest.
"Okay," she said. "Let's go crash a ball."