It was a bright and pleasant morning when Mother Goose, Father Hearth, and one of the children from the House of the Hearth set out for the market. The town was bustling with life—merchants calling out their wares, shoppers haggling over prices, and the scent of fresh bread and spices filling the air.
The child accompanying them was a bright-eyed boy named Oliver, no older than ten, who spoke with the confidence of a scholar and the energy of a bird startled from its nest. His words spilled forth like an endless stream, and, much to Mother Goose's growing bewilderment, most of what he said made absolutely no sense.
"Do you think," Oliver began as they walked past a stall selling apples, "that if a tree dreamed hard enough, it could become a fish? But not a normal fish, obviously. A celestial fish made of stars that swims through the sky and whispers to the wind?"
Mother Goose blinked, pausing mid-step. "I—"
Father Hearth, without hesitation, nodded. "Only if the roots do not hold it back."
Oliver gasped in delight. "Exactly! See, Mother Goose? He understands!"
Mother Goose rubbed her temples. "Oh, of course he does."
They arrived at a cheese stall, where an elderly merchant greeted them warmly. Before either guardian could respond, Oliver leaned over the stall and said, completely serious, "What if cheese had emotions?"
The merchant coughed. "Er—what?"
Oliver continued, eyes alight with curiosity. "If cheese was self-aware, would it prefer to be eaten quickly or to live in a cold, dark place forever? And if it had dreams, would it dream of being something greater—perhaps a wheel so large it could eclipse the moon?"
The merchant, clearly unprepared for such philosophical debate at this hour, looked utterly lost.
Mother Goose, bless her heart, attempted to salvage the conversation. "We'll take some of your finest cheddar, dear."
Father Hearth, meanwhile, gave Oliver an approving nod. "A worthy question. But cheese, being born of transformation, likely accepts its fate."
Oliver gasped. "Of course! That makes so much sense."
Mother Goose stared at them both. "Does it?"
The merchant just quietly wrapped the cheese, deciding he did not wish to know more.
At the next stall, Oliver marveled at the freshly baked bread, his thoughts running wild once more.
"If bread is the body of the harvest, does that mean when we eat it, we carry the essence of the sun within us?"
The baker, who had been mid-smile, suddenly looked as if he had been struck by divine revelation.
Mother Goose groaned. "Oliver, sweetheart, can we simply buy the bread without breaking the fabric of reality?"
Father Hearth examined the loaves carefully. "It is true. Bread is a vessel of warmth, a memory of golden fields."
The baker clutched his apron. "By the gods… I have never thought of it that way before."
Mother Goose sighed.
As they passed by a stall selling live chickens, Oliver became intensely fascinated.
"Mother Goose, what do you think a chicken thinks about all day?"
Mother Goose, tired but amused, patted one of the birds on the head. "Oh, nothing too complicated, dear. Just pecking, eating, and where to lay their next egg."
Oliver shook his head. "No, no, but what if—what if—they actually contemplate the vastness of existence, but in a way that we simply don't understand? What if their clucks are ancient riddles passed down from the first chicken to ever exist?"
Father Hearth, without hesitation, replied, "The first chicken still clucks. The world does not listen."
Oliver gasped in awe. "That's exactly what I was thinking!"
Mother Goose massaged her forehead. "I feel like I need a very strong cup of tea."
The chicken, seemingly unbothered by its newfound philosophical significance, simply clucked.
By the time they finished their shopping, Mother Goose was exhausted, the town was bewildered, and Father Hearth was as calm as ever. Oliver, skipping happily beside them, was already lost in a new train of thought.
"If we could see music, do you think it would look like ribbons or waves?"
"Both," Father Hearth answered immediately.
Mother Goose just shook her head with a laugh. "You know what, Oliver? I think you're exactly where you belong."
Oliver grinned. "You mean at the market?"
"No, dear." She smiled at him fondly. "At the House of the Hearth. Where even the strangest of thoughts have a place."
Oliver beamed, and for a moment, even Mother Goose had to admit—perhaps a little chaos wasn't so bad after all.