In a faraway, long-ago village, nestled at the very edge of a dark, deep forest, there lived a girl. Or rather, that’s what everyone believed — that it was a girl. Her face was delicate, like a petal of a pink apple blossom; her voice was soft and sweet, like a brook murmuring in spring; and her smile was so warm that even the grumpiest old man in the village couldn’t help but smile back.

She was called — or rather, he was called, but that comes later — Little Red Riding Hood. For the crimson-red cloak with a hood that her grandmother had given her. The cloak was as red as the first wild strawberry, as red as the sunset before a storm, as red as the thing that flows when you prick your finger on a rose thorn.

Everyone in the village adored Little Red Riding Hood. Of course — she always helped, always smiled, always said exactly what people wanted to hear. She baked pies for the neighbor’s grandmother. She brought milk to the lame shepherd. She gathered flowers for the sick children. The perfect child — an angel, really.

And no one — not a single soul in the village — had ever looked under the white napkin in her basket. And that was a shame. Because next to the pies and the jar of raspberry jam, a knife gleamed. Sharp and gleaming, with a wooden handle polished to a shine by the hands of a young man.

For the forest — it is vast. And dark. And full of wolves.

And Little Red Riding Hood — she’s no fool. She is very, very clever. And very, very kind. So kind that she is ready to do anything for those she loves.

It’s just that Little Red Riding Hood knows how to love... in her own way.