In a crooked cottage at the edge of the Hemlock Forest lived a witch feared by all—children sang warnings about her in trembling rhymes, and parents whispered of her curses after dark. They called her the Bone Witch, for it was said she could twist your very skeleton with a flick of her wand, boil your blood in your veins, or worse—trap your soul in a jar sealed with black wax.

Her garden was overgrown with poisonous belladonna, her roof was tiled with the skulls of birds, and her windows glowed green at night. No one dared approach.

No one, that is, except for Cricket.

Cricket was not a child, nor a brave hunter, nor a lost traveler. Cricket was her pet.

And Cricket, oddly enough, was… adorable.

Not just a little adorable. Devastatingly adorable. He was a fluffy, round creature with enormous ears, eyes like glossy buttons, and fur the color of burnt marshmallows. No one quite knew what he *was*—he looked like a cross between a rabbit and a fox, with a curl in his tail and a habit of sneezing out tiny rainbows when startled.

The Bone Witch adored him.

“Come, darling,” she crooned in her raspy, splintering voice, stooped over her bubbling cauldron. “Mama’s making toad-and-shadow stew. You want a sniff, hmm?”

Cricket chirped and bounced onto the rim of the cauldron, sniffed once, sneezed, and let out a faint rainbow puff. The potion hissed in surprise.

“Ugh! You sweet little abomination,” the witch cackled, pulling him close and pressing a kiss to his squishy head. “You’ll ruin my dark magick with that nonsense.”

Despite the Bone Witch’s reputation, Cricket had a way of softening the edges of her evil. When villagers gathered to curse her name and leave garlic at their windows, they often spoke of the tiny creature that sometimes appeared behind her, chasing falling leaves or curling up beside gravestones with a contented squeak.

Many were confused by his presence. Some believed he was her familiar, others that he was a demon in disguise, a trap for the kind-hearted.

But the truth was far stranger.

Cricket had wandered into her life seven winters ago, on a night when the forest itself howled with hunger and the stars blinked out one by one. The witch had been preparing a curse—her most powerful yet. A plague of endless sleep, to spread through the kingdom that had dared banish her centuries ago.

But before she could cast it, she heard a strange tapping at her warped door.

She’d opened it with fury in her eyes, only to find a shivering, tiny thing on her doorstep, looking up at her with silent hope. She raised her hand to smite it.

Then it sneezed, and a glittery rainbow mist settled on her boot.

And for the first time in two hundred years, the Bone Witch blinked.

“…What in all the darkened moons *are* you?”

Cricket had simply squeaked.

And then stayed. And eaten her skull-shaped cookies. And chewed through her book of curses (twice). And curled up in her sleeve when she tried to hex him away.

Over time, the Bone Witch found herself talking more and cursing less. She still harvested shadows and bottled screams, but she also learned how to knit—Cricket got cold in the winter, after all.

Then, one day, a knight came to slay her.

He crashed through her garden, shattering her stone frog statues and shouting of justice. The Bone Witch sighed, rose from her chair, and began to summon her magic.

But before she could unleash a storm of bone-gnashing wraiths, Cricket leapt into action.

The knight froze mid-swing as a soft, rainbow-sneezing ball of fluff hurled itself onto his face and began licking his nose.

“…What in the blessed heavens—?”

The Bone Witch burst into a cackle so loud it cracked a window.

“You’re *seriously* threatened by *Cricket*? HA! Look at him, he’s practically a dust bunny!”

The knight left confused and slightly giggling, patting Cricket on the head as he went.

And word spread.

That the Bone Witch might not be *entirely* evil.

That she had a pet who sneezed rainbows and danced in teacups.

Children began daring each other to leave tiny offerings at the edge of the forest—yarn balls, sugared berries, acorns with smiley faces carved into them. Sometimes the gifts were gone in the morning. Sometimes there was a squeaky chirp in reply.

And though the Bone Witch never admitted it, she began to smile more.

Just a little.

Because even a heart blackened by centuries of betrayal can be warmed by something small, strange, and absurdly cute.

Especially if it sneezes rainbows.