She struggled to add more wood to the fire.
The scent of cinnamon was faint in the air, now overrode by the damp and mold as sugar slid to tasteless paste.
There had been no children here for many years.
Too many years. They all feared the old woman, mothers telling their children they would be stolen away and eatten.
Tears ran down the crone’s face as she fingered the ribbon left as the last child had ran screaming from her touch.