A young boy in a red hooded cloak and old-fashioned clothes stands on a dirt path in a sun-dappled forest, holding a wicker basket.

In a small village nestled at the edge of a whispering forest lived a boy named Robin. He wasn't like the other boys, who chased squirrels with loud shouts and climbed trees with reckless abandon. Robin had eyes the colour of polished river stones, long lashes that brushed his cheeks when he smiled, and hair the shade of late summer wheat, often tied back with a simple ribbon. His movements were graceful, his voice a soft murmur, and his hands, though capable, seemed more suited to holding wildflowers than rough tools. His grandmother, who lived on the other side of the forest, had fashioned for him a magnificent cloak. It was made of the softest wool, the colour of a robin’s breast, and it had a deep hood that framed his delicate face perfectly. The villagers, charmed by his gentle nature and striking appearance, had taken to calling him "Little Red Riding Hood," a name that clung to him like the soft fabric of his beloved garment. One clear morning, Robin's mother, seeing him arranging a vase of freshly picked bluebells, sighed softly. "Robin, dear heart," she said, her voice tinged with worry, "your Grandmother isn't feeling well. She needs these sweet cakes and this bottle of elderflower cordial. Will you take them to her?" Robin’s eyes, usually so calm, filled with concern. "Of course, Mother," he said, accepting the wicker basket. He knew the path well, a winding track through ancient trees, but his mother's regular warnings echoed in his ears: "Stay on the path, See more