In a dense, shadowed forest lived an old witch, feared for her cruel spells. In her cottage, two girls resided: her plain, cold-hearted daughter, and her beautiful, gentle stepdaughter, forced to work tirelessly from dawn till night.

One evening, the stepdaughter overheard the witch declare her intention to kill her that very night, envying her beauty and kindness. The girl trembled with fear but bravely kept her composure.

Knowing she must escape, the stepdaughter could not flee alone, for her heart belonged to Roland, a kind young man from the village. That night, she whispered to him through his window, telling him everything. Roland was determined; they would run together. But first, she had to save herself from the witch’s axe.

The witch commanded her own daughter to sleep near the stepdaughter, intending to kill the right girl at dawn. But the stepdaughter, devising a clever plan, silently switched places with the witch’s daughter while the witch slept soundly.

In the dim morning light, the witch, believing she targeted the stepdaughter, raised her axe. But in her haste and the darkness, she mistakenly struck her own daughter. When she realized her terrible error, she wailed like a storm, fury shaking the walls.

The witch’s eyes burned with uncontrollable wrath. She screamed for vengeance and swore to hunt down the stepdaughter and Roland. The girl and Roland fled into the forest, running deeper than they had ever gone. The witch seized her magic drum, which could track anyone who tried to escape from her.

Before fleeing, the stepdaughter had bravely taken something precious: the witch’s rose-red skirt. It shimmered with soft enchantment, and it was said that all who saw it would feel love for the wearer. The skirt was the witch's most treasured possession, not for its beauty, but for its power, and its loss deepened her fury beyond measure.

The witch beat her magic drum, tracking their every step. Roland and the stepdaughter ran until they were breathless, the witch's shadow growing closer. But the girl remembered a spell she had learned: she touched Roland’s hand, and together they transformed. Roland became a calm lake, and she, a white duck gliding serenely upon its surface.

The furious witch arrived, panting from her chase. She could not cross the unexpected lake and failed to recognize the duck upon its surface. She cursed the world and was forced to turn back. Once she departed, Roland and the girl returned to their human forms and continued on.

The relentless witch did not give up and soon tracked them again. As she approached, the girl performed another transformation. She became a delicate, small flower by the roadside, and Roland transformed into a wandering musician, playing a soft tune beside the blossom. The witch passed by without suspicion.

Believing they were finally safe, Roland said he must return home to tell his family of their journey, promising to come back soon so they could be married. The girl agreed—but her heart trembled. Still, she trusted him completely.

Before Roland had left the forest, the witch found him one last time—but he did not know. She struck him with a memory spell, one so clever and subtle that Roland forgot the girl entirely. He walked home with an empty heart, unaware something precious was missing.

The girl waited. Days passed. Then weeks. Then months. She did not cry, but she grew quiet and pale, living beside the serene lake where they once found refuge. One day, devastating news reached her: Roland was to marry another. Her heart broke softly—not with rage, but with sorrow.

She gathered herself. She did not blame him, for she understood the power of the spell. With determination, she left the forest and traveled to the town where the wedding was to be held, taking only a small harp and the rose-red skirt.

The town was full of celebration. Music and laughter filled the streets. Roland stood among the guests, handsome and smiling, yet there was something hollow in his eyes, a memory missing. The girl entered quietly, wearing her rose-red skirt and carrying her harp, and asked to play.

She began to play a song, gentle as water and aching as longing—the very melody they had once shared by the lake. As the music filled the air, it flowed like memory returned. Roland froze, a flicker of recognition crossing his face.

Roland rushed forward, calling her name at last. The witch’s spell shattered. His bride-to-be gracefully stepped aside, for she saw the truth in their eyes. There was no jealousy, no anger—only quiet understanding.

Meanwhile, far away in the forest, the witch returned to the lake where she’d lost them. But magic poorly cast often rebounds. The memory spell twisted back upon her. She forgot her own spells, her purpose, her fury—and wandered forever among the trees. Roland and the girl were married soon after. They lived near the peaceful lake that once saved them, building a cottage filled with music and warmth. The rose-red skirt was kept carefully, not for beauty or power, but as a reminder: Love is not held by magic. It lives by memory, kindness, and choice. And in that home, where music mingled with birdsong and laughter, love lived quietly and true.