The cottage at the edge of the blackwood forest was small, but to Seraphine it was the whole world. Its walls smelled faintly of pine, its hearth glowed with gentle fire, and its windows opened onto fields where fireflies danced at dusk.
Her mother's laughter filled the rooms like sunlight. Her father's stories painted courage into the night. And Seraphine — innocent, radiant, truly sweet — chased butterflies through the meadow, sang to the river until it rippled back, and offered wildflowers to anyone who passed by.
She was the village's little light. She was her parents' joy. She was a child untouched by shadows.
But the forest whispered. And though she did not yet understand its words, it waited. Patiently. For the day when innocence would fade, and sweetness would become something else entirely.