## Act I: The Descent (20%)

The wind howled across the Yorkshire moors like a wounded thing, rattling the broken panes of the small cottage. Eleanor Crawford stirred the meager fire with a stick of rotting wood. Her mother, Agnes, lay on the straw mattress, her breathing shallow and ragged.

"Mother," Eleanor whispered, "I'll find something. Anything."

The pantry held nothing but a crust of bread and a jar of pickled onions. It had been like this for months since the lord evicted them from their land and the village fell into poverty.

Eleanor climbed the creaking stairs to the forest. She needed to find something to sell. As she pushed aside a cobwebbed branch, she heard a voice.

"Who goes there?"

It was a woman's voice, soft but clear. Eleanor froze. The forest was supposed to be empty.

"I am Woodwose," the voice said. "I mean you no harm."

Eleanor found her in the clearing, sitting on an old tree stump. She was perhaps thirty, with pale skin and eyes like green moss. She wore clothes of unknown fabric, shimmering like spider silk.

"You're... alive?" Eleanor stammered.

"I am trapped," Woodwose replied. "The lord cursed me. I have waited one hundred years for someone to find me."

Eleanor should have run. Instead, she sat down. "I'm Eleanor. This is my mother's cottage. It's falling apart."

Woodwose smiled sadly. "I know. I have watched it decay."

## Act II: The Undercurrent (30%)

The next morning, Eleanor returned to the kitchen to find a loaf of bread and a jar of honey on the table. She stared at them, certain she had imagined them. But they were real. Warm, even.

"Mother," she called, "look."

Agnes sat up, her eyes wide. "Where did you get this?"

"I don't know. It was just here."

That evening, Woodwose appeared again. She said she could provide for them, if they would let her stay. Eleanor agreed, though she felt a strange hesitation. Why should a stranger help them?

Woodwose lived in the forest, behind the old shrine. Every morning, Eleanor would find food: bread, honey, sometimes even meat. Her mother's color returned. The fire burned brighter. For the first time in months, they were not starving.

But Agnes was not satisfied.

"This Woodwose," she said one evening, "she must be old. How old do you think she is?"

"I don't know. Perhaps thirty."

"Thirty," Agnes mused. "She has such strong hands. Such bright eyes. Eleanor, do you know what I would give for that?"

Eleanor looked at her sharply. "You don't mean—"

"Why not?" Agnes sat up. "She has power, Eleanor. She provides food from nothing. She must have something more. Power. Wealth. Everything."

"Mother, she is not a witch. She is a woman."

"A woman with power," Agnes insisted. "And power should be used."

Eleanor said nothing. But she felt a coldness grow in her chest.

Weeks passed. Agnes began to sew. She made armor for Woodwose, the kind she might wear. She placed it on the kitchen table one morning, and it was gone by evening.

"Did you see this?" Eleanor asked.

"It was here," Agnes said. "And now it is not. Perhaps she likes it."

One evening, a strong hand reached through the forest opening. It was calloused, strong, and perfect. Agnes held up the armor. The hand slipped it on. It fit perfectly.

"Thank you," Woodwose's voice came from the other side. "It is beautiful."

Agnes's eyes gleamed. "Daughter," she said, "would you not stay with us forever? Would you not share your gift?"

Woodwose was silent for a long moment. "My gift is not for greed, Eleanor's mother. It is for gratitude."

"Gratitude?" Agnes's voice hardened. "We have given you shelter. We have given you food. Is that not enough?"

"It is more than enough," Woodwose said. "But you ask for more than gratitude asks."

## Act III: The Eruption (35%)

The storm came on a November night. Thunder shook the cottage, and rain lashed the windows. Agnes stood before the forest, her face twisted with desperation.

"Woodwose!" she cried. "I know you are there! I know you have power! Give it to me!"

Eleanor rushed to the forest. "Mother, stop!"

"No!" Agnes turned to her, eyes wild. "Do you not see? She has power. She can save us. She can save us from poverty, from hunger, from this wretched existence!"

"Mother, she is not a tool. She is a woman."

"She is a resource!" Agnes screamed. "And I will not let her go! Woodwose! I command you! Give me your power! Give me your wealth! Give me everything!"

The forest glowed. A yellow light filled the room. Woodwose's voice came, cold and clear:

"I came to feed the hungry poor, Not to arm your greed for war. I fed your bellies, warmed your cold, But greed has made a thief of old.

The forest gives, the forest takes, Greed has turned my grace to break. I leave you now, as I must go, For greed has killed the seed of woe."

The light vanished. The forest was empty. Agnes collapsed to the floor, weeping.

"Mother," Eleanor whispered, "what have you done?"

Agnes looked at her, eyes hollow. "I have lost everything. Again."

## Act IV: The Echo (15%)

Agnes died three weeks later. She did not suffer physically, but her spirit was broken. She sat by the window every day, staring at the forest, waiting for Woodwose to return.

Eleanor buried her in the churchyard beside the cottage. On the grave, she placed a piece of armor.

That night, Eleanor climbed to the forest. Behind the old shrine, she found a letter, written in elegant script:

*Eleanor,*

*I came because the lord cursed me unfairly. I stayed because your mother was kind, at first. I left because greed is a poison that cannot be un drunk.*

*Do not mourn me. Mourn the greed that drove me away.*

*Woodwose*

Eleanor folded the letter and placed it in her pocket. She looked out the attic window at the forest. The wind still howled, but she felt something she had not felt in months.

Hope.

Not for power. Not for wealth. But for the simple truth that gratitude, once lost, can sometimes be found again.

She descended the stairs, closed the forest door, and walked into the storm.