The day was calm—an almost suspicious calm, the kind that made Mother Goose wonder if the children back at the House of the Hearth had finally burned the kitchen down without her noticing. But Father Hearth, stoic as always, simply enjoyed the walk, hands behind his back, eyes wandering over the scenery like one who had walked a thousand such roads and still found peace in their sameness.
They were passing through the outskirts of a small town when they noticed him.
A young boy sat at the edge of a fountain. His raincoat was far too large for his small frame, a deep, washed-out blue that dragged over the cobblestones like heavy fabric drenched in water. His skin was pale, his face gaunt, and dark circles clung beneath his eyes as though sleep had long abandoned him. Fat tears rolled constantly down his cheeks, and yet… there was no sobbing, no sound. Just the endless stream, as natural as breathing.
Mother Goose slowed her steps, tilting her head in concern. "Oh… oh, the poor dear," she whispered, her expressive voice carrying the weight of instant sympathy. "Look at him, Hearth. He's so small! And—oh heavens above—he's crying, look at those tears, my heart—"
"He has been crying for a long time," Father Hearth said quietly, his tone more observation than pity.
Mother Goose puffed her cheeks, exasperated. "Yes, but don't just say it like you're pointing out a cloud! We have to help him!"
They approached the boy. Mother Goose knelt before him, gently brushing feathers of her shawl away so as not to startle him. "Hello, sweetheart," she said softly. "What's wrong?"
The boy lifted his head, revealing mismatched eyes blurred by tears—blue like a drowned sky and gray like storm clouds. His lips trembled as he spoke in a voice quiet but heavy.
"…Everything."
Mother Goose's heart cracked audibly. "Oh, darling…"
Father Hearth stood behind her, gazing down at the boy. Something about him stirred an old recognition, though faint. A memory of another child—one clad in yellow, who laughed until the air itself felt lighter.
The boy's raincoat dripped without being wet, puddles forming beneath him that vanished as quickly as they appeared. His tears fell endlessly, and yet he did not shake or sniffle. He simply cried, as though it was what he was.
"Who are you?" Mother Goose asked gently.
"…Sadness," the boy whispered.
She froze, realizing what he meant. Her mind leapt instantly to the small figure in a yellow raincoat they had met not too long ago. Her eyes widened. "You're Joy's brother."
He nodded, shoulders sagging, head drooping again. Another tear slid down his face, and another, and another, until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.
"Well," Mother Goose said firmly, wiping her own cheek though she hadn't cried. "You're coming with us today. No arguments."
Father Hearth inclined his head in agreement. "We will keep him company."
And so they did.
The three of them walked the town, Mother Goose dragging Sadness gently by the hand, while Father Hearth carried the boy's dripping cloak whenever it dragged too far. They bought him pastries from a vendor, though the sugar melted against his lips with every tear. They showed him the gardens, but every flower seemed to wilt when his gaze lingered. Children playing in the street quieted when he passed, their joy dimmed, though not by malice—merely by the sheer weight of him.
Yet Mother Goose never let go of his hand. She told him story after story, funny ones, sweet ones, ones about mischievous geese and knights in glittering armor. Sometimes, just sometimes, his lips would twitch—never quite smiling, but no longer trembling either.
Father Hearth, though silent, occasionally offered a dry remark that seemed to ground the boy. When Sadness dropped a piece of bread, Father Hearth bent to pick it up and said, "Food wasted is sorrow doubled. Best not to."
Sadness blinked at him, and for a brief moment, the tears slowed.
They spent hours wandering like this, simply being there for him, knowing they could not stop his tears, but they could share the burden of them.
Then, just as the sun dipped low, casting the town in hues of orange and rose, a familiar, booming laugh rang out across the square.
"BROTHER!"
Both Mother Goose and Father Hearth looked up as a boy in a bright yellow raincoat came sprinting—his steps light, his laughter bouncing through the air like bells. It was Joy, his cheeks glowing, his smile radiant.
He threw his arms around the smaller boy, who for once looked startled. "Sadness, there you are! You wander off too much, you know! But it's alright—I found you! We'll go home now."
Sadness blinked, tears still flowing, but leaned into his brother's hug as though it were a habit older than time.
Joy looked up at Father Hearth and Mother Goose, grinning from ear to ear. "Thank you for looking after him! He does this sometimes."
Mother Goose huffed, hands on her hips. "Oh, sometimes? That child cries like he's been carrying the grief of the whole world on his back! Honestly—do you even—"
Joy laughed, cutting her off. "That's who he is. And that's alright. As long as I'm here, he'll never be alone."
With that, Joy hoisted Sadness up onto his back. The younger boy didn't resist, simply letting his endless tears drip down his brother's shoulders.
And then—just as suddenly as they had arrived—the two of them vanished, like the fading echo of laughter after a storm.
For a long moment, the square was quiet again.
Mother Goose exhaled, clutching her shawl. "…Well, that was exhausting."
Father Hearth's voice was calm as ever. "They are two halves of the same whole."
"Yes, well," she muttered, shaking her head. "I'd rather Joy than Sadness any day."
But when she glanced sideways at Father Hearth, she found the faintest glimmer of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
And together, they turned back toward home.