They left the House of the Hearth at dawn, slipping through a quiet wooden door hidden behind the grand hearth itself. With a flicker of warm embers and the faint hush of the world tilting sideways, Father Hearth and Mother Goose found themselves standing at the edge of an ancient meadow—one that did not appear on any map but existed precisely where it must.
It was a realm untouched by wind or time. The grasses grew knee-high and silver under a sky that hummed gently, soft and unending. A stone path curled through the field like a ribbon of memory, leading to a place that could not be seen—only found.
The House of the Fates.
The two of them walked in silence, their footfalls stirring pale moths from the grass. Father Hearth's heavy boots pressed the stones flat, Mother Goose's soft shoes whispered against the earth. They did not speak—some places did not care for chatter until they offered it themselves.
Finally, the path turned, and there it was: a house built of stories and shadows. Its walls seemed to shift—sometimes weathered wood, sometimes brickwork, sometimes the bones of ancient ships. Windows blinked like eyes, some curtained, some wide open to the vast nowhere. Smoke curled from the chimney—lavender-scented, shimmering faintly gold.
At the front door, carved with runes older than language, Mother Goose knocked once, twice, three times—always the proper way.
The door swung open with the hush of pages turning.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around them immediately—threads of incense, flickering candlelight, and the soft scent of herbs that knew how to keep secrets.
They were greeted first by the Maiden. Barefoot, eyes bright as the dawn sky, her hair long and loose down her back like a river of starlight. She looked no older than sixteen but carried the weight of every beginning that ever was.
"Goose! Hearth!" she sang, her voice like silver bells. "You remembered to visit!"
Mother Goose smiled, dipping her head with theatrical grace. "And miss tea with you three? I'd sooner let the children paint the ceilings again."
Behind the Maiden drifted the Mother—full-bodied and warm, an embrace of a woman with hair like harvest wheat and hands that smelled of freshly turned earth. She wore a robe stitched with constellations and stains of spilled tea.
"About time," she said, voice like honey and hearthfire. "We've just taken the kettle off the boil. Come in. Sit. Talk."
Father Hearth offered a polite nod. "Thank you, as always."
Last to appear—half-shadow, half-ember—was the Crone. She moved like drifting smoke, eyes sharp as black glass, hair wound in a tight braid threaded with tiny charms and feathers. Wrinkles lined her face like the map of every path that had ever ended.
She gave them a look that could peel paint from wood and said dryly, "And here I was hoping for a quiet afternoon. Foolish old bat that I am."
Mother Goose's grin turned sharp. "Missed me terribly, didn't you?"
The Crone only snorted and flicked her fingers. "Sit before I change my mind and feed you to the threads instead."
They were led into a sitting room that seemed bigger than the house itself. Walls draped with woven tapestries depicting the world's oldest myths. A fireplace roared despite no wood in its belly. Shelves of spools and scissors and countless clay jars lined every surface.
At the center: a simple wooden table, set with mismatched porcelain and three steaming kettles—because the Fates could never agree on just one flavor of tea. Plates of honey cakes and spiced nuts and sugared fruit waited as if they knew exactly who would come.
The Maiden poured the tea—light and fragrant, a whisper of spring blossoms. The Mother passed out the honey cakes, humming as she did. The Crone sat back in her chair like a queen on her throne, gnarled hands resting on the head of her old walking stick.
"So," the Crone rasped, eyeing Father Hearth over the rim of her cup. "Have the mortals stopped trying to worship your hearth yet, old flame?"
"Some do," he replied evenly, the corner of his mouth twitching just a fraction. "I let them. It makes winter kinder."
The Maiden giggled. "And your children? Still setting things on fire?"
Mother Goose threw her hands up dramatically. "Only half the city this time."
The Mother let out a warm laugh, patting her knee. "Bless them. Good to know chaos has proper caretakers."
For a while, they sat—pouring more tea, sharing old tales, some so old they crumbled when spoken aloud. The house around them creaked, threads of fate shimmering in the rafters like cobwebs made of moonlight.
They spoke of the world's turnings, the shifting of stars, the children that kept being born with too much wonder and too little sense. They traded gossip of kings and spirits, of prophets who dreamed too loudly. The Crone asked after the wayward spirits that haunted the House's endless halls; the Mother asked for stories about Gunther and Gideon; the Maiden begged for news of the Fairy King and his reckless tricks.
And when the cups were empty, when the last honey cake vanished, and the shadows deepened into dusk, the three old Fates rose together.
"Promise you'll come again soon," the Maiden said, eyes bright with futures untold.
Mother Goose pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her brow. "You'll have to come drag us yourselves if we don't."
Father Hearth clasped the Mother's hands in his broad, calloused ones—warm as ever. She pressed her forehead to his, a soft, wordless blessing.
The Crone didn't stand, but she lifted one crooked finger. "Try not to burn anything important, you two."
"No promises," Mother Goose called as she and Father Hearth stepped back into the field.
Behind them, the House of the Fates pulsed with gentle light—threads weaving, unweaving, reweaving—stories yet told, stories forgotten, stories they would carry home in the folds of their sleeves.
And the meadow, silver and endless, rustled like silk beneath their feet as they walked back to the door that would take them to their waiting children, to chaos, to warmth—
—back to the ever-burning hearth.