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Daddy died when I was little. He was just a woodsman who lived outside the town. I don't remember him.

My mum was the cook for a roadside inn on the side of a mountain. When it was Summer, we would cook sweet pumpkin pies which the travellers could smell miles away. In Winter, hearty beef casseroles that warmed even the coldest of patrons. In Springtime, we would go out in the field and gather wildberries for jam.

When I was nine, mum fell sick and died. I still cooked for a little while, but bandits took over the inn a few days after my tenth birthday and I ran away.

I don't know how long I've been in the woods. Every now and then I sneak back and steal supplies from the bandits, some flour or sugar or a new ladle, and I cook a pie or a soup in my cave, just like mum and I used to. It's nice not feeling lonely for a little while, but I have to cook more and more so I don't feel alone these days.

I wish I had someone to cook with, someone who had a real pot and good meat. Then we could be happy, and we could travel far away from the cave and the bandits.

I hope every night before I go to sleep that... that a nice person will... find me...