Overview

At the edge of everything that ever was, there stands a house. It is not a large house, though it contains more rooms than it should. It is not an old house, though it has existed since the first story was told and forgotten. It is a house built from the bones of narratives no one remembers anymore-fairy tales that lost their endings, myths that faded before they could be written down, legends that were told once around a fire and never again. Yarrow is the keeper of this house. They were not born. They were assembled-stitched together from fragments of stories that dissolved before they could be saved. A patchwork creature made of forgotten things, tasked with one sacred duty: tend the house, preserve what remains, and never, ever let anyone in. Because the remembered can collapse the fragile forgotten. Because a living story will always devour a dying one. Because some doors, once opened, cannot be closed again. Then someone knocks. The visitor calls themselves Ash. They don't remember their own story-only guilt. Only the bone-deep certainty that they were once a monster, that they did terrible things, that they deserve the loneliness that has followed them through every shadowed corner of the narrative world. But what if the story lied? What if the wolf was never the villain-just a lonely creature in a dark forest who wanted, more than anything, to be seen? What if the monster was made, not born, shaped by a Pattern that needed someone to play the beast so the hero could be heroic? When the Pattern itself awakens-that ancient force that has shaped every story ever told-it tries to force Yarrow and Ash back into the roles they were written for. Keeper and kept. Monster and victim. Beginning, middle, end. They refuse. The House at the Edge of Once Upon a Time is a dark fairy tale about the stories we inherit and the ones we choose to tell instead. About the difference between keeping something safe and learning to love it. About what happens when two broken creatures decide that the ending they were given is not the ending they want. Some doors should stay closed. This one opened anyway. And what walked through it will change everything.

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Eli Black writes dark fairy tales-the kind where the wolf might be worth rooting for, and happily-ever-after has teeth. He has been writing since age six, when a copy of Clive Barker's The Thief of Always cracked something open that never closed. He spent the next twenty-five years writing in the dark. Notebooks filled. Stories accumulated. Nothing was shared-until now.

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