Overslept

She awakes, young, beautiful, covered in cobwebs and dead insects. There is no one to greet her.
She rises, walks through cold castle halls caked with the dust of centuries, the detritus of neglect. There is no one here.
“Father?” she calls, her voice brittle, dry as leaves.
No one answers.
She walks for seeming hours. Her legs are stiff from sleep, her feet bare, but she walks on, searching.
At last she comes to the throne room. And there, the witch sits, in her father’s place.
“Why did no one wake me?” Beauty asks.
The witch smiles. “Men eh?”