The little restaurant on the bustling mortal street was unremarkable. A humble sign reading "The Cozy Spoon" swung lazily in the afternoon breeze, and the scent of freshly baked bread and simmering stew filled the air. The waitstaff moved between wooden tables, serving hearty meals to chatting patrons.
And then they walked in.
The bell above the door jingled, but it may as well have been a herald's trumpet for the sheer presence of the newcomers.
Mother Goose burst into the restaurant like a firework, arms spread wide, her golden-stitched cloak fluttering behind her as if woven from stories themselves. She twirled, causing her feathered hat to tilt dramatically as she gasped at the sight before her.
"Oh! What a quaint little place! The chairs! The tables! Oh, how they speak of mortal charm! Such delight!" She clapped her hands, her expression radiant with pure joy.
The restaurant froze.
Every single customer, every waiter, and even the cook peeking from the kitchen—all of them had stopped moving, their spoons hovering mid-air, their bites abandoned. Eyes wide, mouths slightly open, their collective gaze was fixed on the two beings who clearly did not belong in a simple lunch setting.
And then, he arrived.
Father Hearth did not burst, twirl, or gasp. He simply walked in, as inevitable as the setting sun. A broad figure clad in deep ember-colored robes, his presence was heavy, like the warmth of a fire on a cold winter's night. He was stillness itself—quiet yet unshakable, his expression set in stone.
He nodded once, barely acknowledging the stunned onlookers, and moved past Mother Goose toward an empty table. The wooden chair creaked slightly as he sat.
He did not sigh. He did not look around. He simply existed there, a calm and immovable force.
Mother Goose gasped, clutching her chest. "Oh! Dearest Hearth! Must you be so terribly dull? You walked past all this wonder, all this charm, without so much as a sigh of admiration?"
Father Hearth picked up the menu. "We are here to eat."
She sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Oh, the tragedy of it! To be shackled to such stoicism!"
The poor waiter—a mortal man who had definitely not signed up for this level of existential crisis—hesitantly approached their table, holding his notepad as if it were a shield. His hands trembled slightly as he asked, "U-Um… Welcome to The Cozy Spoon. What… would you like to order?"
Before Father Hearth could speak, Mother Goose exploded with energy, pointing at the menu with all the grace of a theatrical performer.
"Oh! Oh, I simply must have this… what is this… ah! A 'hearty stew with fresh bread'—oh, how delightful! It reminds me of a tale! There once was a baker who wished to bake the most marvelous bread in all the land—"
Father Hearth set down his menu. "She will have the stew."
Mother Goose huffed, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. "Oh! Rude! To interrupt a lady's tale—such boorish behavior!"
The waiter gave Father Hearth a nervous glance. "A-And for you, sir?"
"Soup," he said, his voice like glowing embers.
The waiter nodded quickly, scribbling it down. "Would you… um, like anything to drink?"
Mother Goose gasped. "Oh! What a question! What a thrill! A drink to accompany a meal is like a chorus to a song! Like a verse to a poem! Oh, but which to choose? Tea? A grand herbal blend? Oh, but perhaps—"
Father Hearth looked at the waiter. "She will have tea."
Mother Goose slammed a hand on the table, feathers on her cloak ruffling. "Hearth! You are too cruel! You wound me deeply!"
The waiter gulped. "And… and for you, sir?"
Father Hearth's eyes—like the burning core of a fire—met his own. "Water."
The poor man nodded so fast it looked painful. "I-I'll get that right away."
As soon as he rushed off, Mother Goose huffed, leaning over the table with a pout. "You are unbearable! Not a single ounce of joy! No whimsy! No drama!"
Father Hearth took a napkin and unfolded it with slow, deliberate movements. "The world is dramatic enough."
"Oh! You say that, but your mere presence turns heads! Look around!" She gestured grandly at the other patrons, who—upon being caught staring—immediately returned to their meals, pretending to be utterly fascinated by their soup.
Father Hearth ignored them. "They will adjust."
Mother Goose let out a deep, theatrical sigh, slumping forward. "Oh, what misery! What misfortune! To dine with a man who refuses to be moved by the wonders of the world!"
Before Father Hearth could respond, the food arrived, and the same waiter—still looking vaguely terrified—set down the stew, bread, soup, and drinks before them.
Mother Goose beamed, picking up her spoon. "Ah! Now this is lovely! Such a fine meal! Such mortal brilliance!"
Father Hearth picked up his spoon and simply ate.
Mother Goose gasped dramatically again. "Oh! You don't even speak while eating! Not even a hum of approval? Not a 'Mmm, how delightful'?"
Father Hearth took another spoonful. "It is warm."
She clutched her chest. "Such thrilling praise!"
And so, they ate. One with flourishes and exclamations, the other in calm silence. The restaurant slowly returned to normal, though every now and then, a customer would steal a glance at the eccentric duo at the corner table—the ever-clashing pair of whimsy and steadiness, the storm and the flame.
When they finally finished, Mother Goose wiped her mouth with a napkin, smiling. "Oh! What a fine meal! I adore these little mortal places! Tell me, Father Hearth, was it not charming?"
He set his spoon down. "It was warm."
Mother Goose sighed. "You are hopeless."
Father Hearth met her gaze. "And yet, you invite me."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "Oh, don't remind me."
Yet, as they rose to leave, she smiled.
And though he said nothing, his presence burned just a little brighter.