Into the Wolf's Den: Little Red's Tale of Romance

CHAPTER 2: Shadows in the Night

LITTLE RED

By the time I reach Grandma’s apartment, the chill in my bones has settled into a steady, uncomfortable ache. The ancient, creaky building looms ahead, its once charming façade now weathered and worn by years of neglect. The dim light from the hallway flickers as I climb the stairs, casting eerie shadows on the walls, making me feel like I’m not alone. But I shake off the feeling, trying to focus on the familiar, on the things that make sense.

The smell of damp wood and stale air greets me as I reach Grandma’s floor. It’s a smell I’ve grown used to, but tonight it feels oppressive, like the walls are closing in on me. I can’t stop thinking about the Wolf, about the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through me, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. The memory of his voice, smooth and velvety, still echoes in my ears: “Be careful, little Red. Wolves don’t always play fair.”

My heart races as I approach Grandma’s door, my hand trembling slightly as I fumble with the keys. The metal feels cold against my skin, and it takes me a moment to get the key into the lock. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see him standing at the end of the hallway, watching me with that same predatory intensity. But the hallway is empty, and the only sound is the faint creak of the old building settling into the night.

I push the door open and step inside, the warmth of the apartment enveloping me like a protective shield. For a moment, I stand in the doorway, letting the familiar scent of lavender and old books calm my racing heart. Grandma always loved the smell of lavender—it was her way of bringing a bit of the countryside into the city. But even the comforting scent can’t chase away the lingering unease that gnaws at the edges of my mind.

I quietly shut the door behind me, locking it with a click that seems too loud in the silence. The apartment is still, save for the faint sound of Grandma’s labored breathing from the bedroom. I slip off my cloak and hang it on the hook by the door, the red fabric looking almost out of place in the dim light. It’s strange how something so familiar can suddenly feel foreign, like I’m seeing it through someone else’s eyes.

My footsteps are soft as I make my way to Grandma’s room, the old wooden floorboards creaking under my weight. I find her exactly where I left her, tucked under the blanket, her fragile frame barely making a dent in the bed. Her breathing is slow and shallow, each inhale and exhale a reminder of how fragile she’s become.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her sleep, her face relaxed in a way that it rarely is when she’s awake. The pain she carries with her every day has faded, at least for now, and I can almost imagine that she’s dreaming of better times, of days when she was strong and full of life. But I know it’s just a dream, a fleeting illusion that will disappear with the morning light.

“I’m here, Grandma,” I whisper, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face. Her skin is cool to the touch, and I resist the urge to pull the blanket tighter around her, afraid I’ll wake her. Instead, I just sit there, my hand resting on hers, taking comfort in the steady rhythm of her breathing.

As I sit there, the events of the night replay in my mind, and I can’t help but feel a growing sense of unease. There’s something about the Wolf that doesn’t add up, something that feels both dangerous and oddly familiar. It’s like he knows something about me that I don’t, like he’s playing a game and I’m just a piece on the board.

I pull my phone from my pocket, checking the time. It’s later than I realized, the hours slipping away without me noticing. The city outside has grown quieter, the usual sounds of nightlife replaced by a heavy, almost oppressive silence. I should get some sleep, but my mind is too wired, too full of unanswered questions.