Chapter 1
This story was originally written in my native language and translated into English with the assistance of AI. If you notice any errors or awkward phrasing, please let me know in the comments so I can fix them.
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Hilda approached the dairy stall. Bypassing the line, she picked up a bottle of milk and a wedge of cheese, leaving an empty flask and a couple of coins on the counter in their place.
“This should be enough, keep the change!” she chirped, offering a radiant smile.
The milkman didn't even glance her way, continuing to serve other customers as if nothing had happened. Hilda moved on, slowing her pace to eye the vegetable stalls. Plenty of edible herbs, mushrooms, and roots grew in the forest, but the heavy shade made it difficult to raise sun-loving vegetables. She lingered by a stand overflowing with produce, studying the succulent, ribbed pink tomatoes. Unlike dairy, which stayed roughly the same price year-round, Hilda didn't know what this particular variety cost today. She stood nearby, clutching her wicker shopping basket. After about five minutes, the turn of a frail old woman came:
“How much for the tomatoes?”
“Two coppers.”
“Then reckon these up for me, dearie.”
Hearing the price, Hilda stepped closer to take a few for herself. The old woman, who had also reached for the tomatoes, jerked her hand back and turned away, suddenly showing an immense interest in the melons at the far end of the counter. Hilda gave a faint snort, tucked a couple of heavy fruits into her basket, and tossed a coin onto the stand. Next on her list was flour; she could already smell the aroma of freshly baked bread that would fill her kitchen tomorrow. After all, good food was one of the few true joys in her life, so she took her groceries very seriously. The line at the miller’s stall was perhaps the longest in the market. Hilda placed a small bag of flour into her basket and was about to leave a coin on the table.
“Auntie! Why are you buying without waiting in line? You have to wait until the man gives you the bag himself!”
Hilda turned and saw a boy of about six, with piercing brown eyes and a pouting face. The child was impatiently balancing on his heels—it seemed standing in line had bored him to death, and he was counting the minutes until he could finally go play. His mother looked at Hilda with an expression of chilling horror, fearfully pulling her son by the shoulders against her skirt.
The girl crouched down and smirked, though the smile didn't reach her eyes.
“You see, sunshine, I’m a very special customer.”
The boy scanned her from head to toe, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.
“Are you... the man’s wife?”
The miller behind the counter choked at those words, his face turning deathly pale.
“Hush, don’t speak to her... She’s a witch...” the mother whispered urgently to the child.
“A witch? Who’s that?” The boy turned a puzzled gaze to his mother, a sincere question written in his wide eyes.
Hilda tilted her head to the side, a dreamy smile playing on her lips.
“A witch... is someone you can tell the things you’re too ashamed to say out loud.”
“You mean like bad words?”
“You’re a sharp one,” Hilda said, standing up and dropping her change onto the counter.
The miller picked up the coins gingerly with a cloth and dropped them into a bowl of water.
