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Fata Narrat: Short Stories

Vanishing Hope

In the heart of the forest, under a moonless sky, stood an old cabin. The night was cold, the air thick with the scent of pine and decay. A figure, cloaked in shadows, approached the door, hand trembling as it knocked. Inside, the cabin belonged to the reclusive Mrs. Hawthorne, who rarely ventured out. She opened the door, her eyes narrowing at the intruder's presence. 'Who are you?' she demanded, voice barely above a whisper.

The figure stepped inside, its form barely visible in the dim light. 'I need your help,' it said, voice low and urgent. 'What could I possibly want from you?' Mrs. Hawthorne's mind raced, recalling all the things that lurked in these woods at night. Her heart pounded as she tried to remember if her shotgun was within reach.

The figure moved closer, its cloak brushing against her legs. 'I am your only hope,' it whispered, and then, before she could react, vanished into thin air. Mrs. Hawthorne stood frozen for a moment, then, with a shiver, began a careful search of the cabin.