The morning was quiet—too quiet. Mother Goose knew what that meant. Father Hearth had left for a trip, and the house, as lively as ever, was now entirely under her care. This was not an unusual occurrence, but it always filled her with a sense of impending doom. Whenever Father Hearth was away, something ridiculous was bound to happen.
The children, for their part, were perfectly content, playing and running about as usual. Mother Goose, enjoying a rare moment of peace, sat on the porch with a cup of tea, basking in the gentle morning sun. The birds chirped, the wind rustled through the trees, and for once, everything seemed… normal.
That was when something large, warm, and very much alive nibbled the brim of her hat.
Mother Goose froze. Her hands clenched around her teacup as she slowly turned her head. There, standing beside her, was a massive moose with dark brown fur, large, intelligent eyes, and an expression of utter nonchalance. Its massive antlers loomed over her, casting a shadow across the porch, and its mouth casually chewed on her beloved hat.
She let out a strangled noise of alarm, nearly dropping her cup. "WHAT—WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS FEATHERED IS THIS?!"
The children, scattered about the yard, barely glanced her way. One of them, a small boy with a wooden sword in hand, called out lazily, "Oh, that's just Francis."
"FRANCIS?!" Mother Goose sputtered, her hat now reduced to a lopsided mess as the moose continued its leisurely snack. "WHY IS THERE A MOOSE? WHERE DID IT COME FROM?!"
Another child, a girl sitting on the fence with a book in her lap, responded as if she were explaining the weather. "He lives in the ranch."
Mother Goose blinked. "The *what*?"
"The ranch," a third child said cheerfully. "You know, the one behind the house!"
Mother Goose's eye twitched. There was no ranch behind the house. There had never been a ranch behind the house. She had lived here long enough to be *certain* of that fact.
And yet, as the children casually walked toward the back of the house, leading Francis along as if this were an everyday occurrence, she found herself following in stunned disbelief.
They moved past the garden, through a thicket of trees she had never paid much attention to, and then—there it was.
An entire ranch, complete with wooden fences, grazing pastures, and a stable big enough to house an assortment of creatures. The air smelled of fresh hay and wildflowers, and the sound of rustling leaves mixed with the occasional huff or snort from unseen animals. Mother Goose stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process how something *this* large could have been hidden from her for so long.
Then she saw them.
The creatures.
Not just cows or horses or even the occasional sheep—no, that would have been too normal.
There were massive, fluffy chickens the size of wolves lazily pecking at the ground. A towering, goat-like beast with six horns perched on a rock, surveying the area like some kind of king. A fox with butterfly wings darted past her, chittering playfully before vanishing into the trees. And then there was a frog the size of a barrel, croaking deeply as it lounged in a pond.
Mother Goose rubbed her eyes. "I am *hallucinating*."
The children, unfazed, led Francis back into the ranch as if this were routine. One of the younger ones pointed to a fence where a group of long-necked, feathery creatures were gathered. "That's Gerald and his family. They like to dance when it rains."
Mother Goose opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
A child tugged on her sleeve. "Do you wanna meet the leader?"
"The… leader?" she echoed weakly.
The child nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Bob!"
Of course, there was a leader. Of course, his name was Bob. At this point, why was she even surprised?
The children led her toward the largest stable, pushing open the doors to reveal a grand, open space lined with golden straw. And there, standing in the center, was a unicorn.
A unicorn.
A magnificent creature with a pure white coat that shimmered under the stable lights, a long, spiraling horn gleaming like polished ivory, and eyes that held an ancient wisdom…
And his name was Bob.
The unicorn turned his regal gaze toward Mother Goose and gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if acknowledging her existence with all the grace of a monarch greeting a foreign diplomat.
"Mother Goose," he said in a voice deep and calm, yet carrying the weight of authority.
Mother Goose inhaled sharply. "The unicorn talks."
One of the children giggled. "Of course he does! He's Bob!"
Bob nodded again, his long mane flowing like silk. "I have watched over this ranch for many years. It is an honor to finally meet you."
Mother Goose stared at him. Then at the children. Then back at him.
Her brain refused to function properly.
Instead, she exhaled slowly, pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered, "Father Hearth and I are going to have a very long discussion when he gets back."
The children, oblivious to her inner turmoil, beamed happily as Bob turned and gracefully trotted deeper into the stable. As she stood there, surrounded by impossibilities, she came to a single conclusion.
She needed another cup of tea.