The city was a living jewel—blinding neon lights reflected off polished marble towers, rivers of billboards and banners streamed between high-rises like silk ribbons in the wind. Streets pulsed with music at every hour, every corner bursting with color, movement, and art.
This was Fashion City—the city that never sleeps, that never stilled, that never dulled. The city where the sidewalks were runways, and even shadows wore couture.
And right now, into the glittering heart of it, stepped Mother Goose and Father Hearth, each of them hauling more shopping bags than any sane person should ever carry.
They had arrived hours earlier—welcomed by the warm, subtle scent of the ocean and the cold bite of marble skyscrapers that sliced the sky like glass knives.
They were here for one reason only—well, one reason in theory: To visit Bianca Florence, the Pink Diamond of the South, the self-crowned Queen of Deva's, whose empire of fabric, scent, and silk shaped half the wardrobes in the mortal realm.
But of course, Bianca was busy—she always was. So Mother Goose had made the next logical choice: shopping. Endless, unstoppable shopping.
They had drifted through the jewel-laden district like migrating birds—one boutique after another, each stop more decadent than the last. Mannequins posed in windows like trapped spirits, draped in fabrics that shimmered under the neon pulse. Perfumes that smelled like starlight and broken hearts lined the glass counters. Scarves that whispered secrets if you pressed them to your ear. Shoes that changed color with your mood.
Father Hearth, usually so immovable and kingly, followed without a word, arms outstretched to carry each new bag that Mother Goose—so precise, so sharp in her judgment—decided to adopt into her collection.
Eventually, even she paused, turning in the middle of a crowded plaza where dancers in LED masks spun under a massive hologram of Bianca's latest line.
She looked down at her arms—bags upon bags of silk, feathers, boxes, perfume vials, an umbrella with a singing handle—then at Father Hearth, whose arms were stacked with packages so high that only his nose and the faint glow of his ember-lit eyes could be seen.
She blinked. "Hearth."
"Yes?"
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"You were… happy."
She squinted at him. Then at the bags. Then at the endless line of boutiques stretching ahead.
She exhaled. "Fine. Door, please."
Without so much as a flicker of effort, Father Hearth lifted one hand from beneath a tower of boxes. He traced a lazy sigil in the air—embers spun like fireflies—and before them, in the middle of the plaza, a plain wooden door appeared, humming with quiet power.
He pushed it open with his elbow. A warm gust of the House of the Hearth's familiar scent—spiced wood, fresh bread, laughter—spilled into the cold, glittering wind of Fashion City.
With an efficient shuffle, they dumped half of their burdens through the door, letting the house's unseen magic spirits whisk the bags away to wherever Mother Goose's closet expanded endlessly into its secret hoard.
When they closed the door, it vanished with a polite pop.
Burdenless once more, they carried on—this time to a narrow street gilded in gold paper lanterns. Tucked between a towering marble art museum and an enormous holographic display of Bianca herself was a modest sign, gilded in silver script: Fraugulian.
Inside, a gentle chime announced their arrival.
The boutique's walls were draped in silk banners of constellations and old show posters—each one a piece of the city's musical legacy. Racks of clothes sat like thrones for embroidered jackets and gowns that looked spun from dreams.
At the far end, behind a low marble counter, two figures waited.
Aries—a soft-spoken soul with gentle eyes and a calm grace that melted the cold edges of the city. His hair was pinned with a single pearl clip, his posture perfect as ever.
And beside him, lounging on a plush velvet chaise, was Leo—radiant, haughty, golden hair spilling like a mane, rings on every finger, draped in silk that shimmered like captured sunlight. He raised one perfectly sculpted brow as Mother Goose and Father Hearth stepped inside.
"Look at you two," Leo purred, voice echoing off the high ceiling like music from a half-remembered opera. "Tourists with the appetites of thieves."
Mother Goose sniffed, removing her hat and smoothing her hair. "Not thieves. Patrons."
Aries smiled softly. "Welcome back. It's been too long. Tea?"
Before an answer came, tea appeared—white porcelain cups, steam curling like a dance. Sweet trays piled high with pastries, sugared fruits, delicate biscuits that melted into flower notes on the tongue.
Outside, the city roared—a constant drumbeat of music, horns, and chatter. Inside, the noise barely reached them. Fraugulian was one of the few sanctuaries left untouched by the chaos of Fashion City.
The four of them sat—old friends, old monsters, old guardians—nestled in silks and the smell of good tea.
Leo leaned back, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, flicking his wrist dramatically whenever he spoke. "And where did Bianca disappear off to this time? She owes me a new shawl. I burned the last one dancing on a rooftop."
Mother Goose arched a brow. "She's off terrorizing Paris. Or maybe it was Prague. The perfume launch."
Aries poured more tea. "Ah. The sleep perfume?"
Father Hearth nodded, deadpan. "Yes. The one that knocked out an entire city block for three days."
Mother Goose chuckled behind her cup. "Good days. Quiet days."
Hours slipped by that way—sweet after sweet, kettle after kettle. Outside, the city refused to sleep. Fireworks sparked above the rooftops. Somewhere down the street, an impromptu fashion show flooded the road with music and rose petals.
Inside, they ignored it all.
It was only when the shadows shifted and the pastries dwindled that Father Hearth reached out, touched Mother Goose's wrist gently, and spoke—soft, firm.
"It's time."
She blinked down at her empty cup. Then at the silk pillows she'd sunk into. Then at Leo, who smirked triumphantly behind his tea.
"I suppose," she sighed dramatically, rising with reluctant grace. She plucked her hat back onto her hair and smoothed her coat, feathers fluffing with fresh annoyance.
"You're not escaping forever," Leo called after them as they stepped to the door. "Next time, you bring me your kingly bread. And your singing teapot."
Aries only smiled as he walked them out. "Safe journey. Give Bianca our love when you see her. Tell her the city still hasn't slept."
Mother Goose laughed as she stepped into the roar of neon and noise once more. "It never will. And neither will she."
Father Hearth's arm came around her shoulders as they vanished back into the river of lights—two old caretakers wandering through the city that never slept, weighed down by nothing but stories and the promise of more.
Somewhere far above them, the billboards flickered:
Fashion never dies. Stories never sleep. And the city dreams on.