It was snowing heavily outside, but not inside. There, sunshine danced between thick oak crowns, creating soft pools of light where it hit the cool ground. A girl walked down the narrow path, her feet tangling in underskirts, her skin white as snow, her cheeks cranberry red. Inside her basket, penny buns and brittlegils were waiting to become a perfect casserole for her seven friends. She rehearsed this story dozens of times, but today was different. Today was the day the tale came to life, making her be heard, seen, and mourned – by everyone, except her mother. Her mother didn’t come to see her play, so the girl was left with her evil stepmother. Just like her mother, the evil stepmother was envious of her youth and beauty. The only difference was that she was present today. The girl reached the tiny cottage with tiny doors and tiny beds, crawled inside and put the basket down. It was so nice to have her own home where no one told her how useless she was, even for a couple of hours a day. It was so nice to have friends, even if they were dwarves. It was so nice to be given kisses and flowers, even if they were fake. She started chopping the mushrooms when a gentle knock on the wood interrupted her humming. Hesitant, she left the counter to open the door. A familiar woman stood outside, perhaps, too familiar. “Why won’t you try one, dear?” the pedlar smiled, offering the girl an apple, shiny and round and crimson as a bitten lip. But the girl wasn’t supposed to take the apple or anything from strangers, so she refused with humble courtesy. “Do you think it’s poison?” the pedlar laughed. The girl drew back. She knew that the fruit had a dark secret. But it was the pedlar’s gaze that was the poison, evil stepmother’s gaze, her mother’s gaze. It was what killed her day by day, performance after performance. It was what made the apple so irresistible and real. The girl’s breath became rapid and superficial. Everything else faded – only she and the fruit existed in concert hall’s darkness. It was silent. It couldn’t lie. She trembled as she reached for the apple, the faint chemical smell of rotten fruit tingling her nostrils, reminding her of the syringe left in the dressing room. And then she took a bite.