It was well past bedtime when a small child from the House of the Hearth wandered away from the warmth of the main hall. The flickering firelight and the soft hum of lullabies were left behind as tiny feet padded down a hallway long forgotten by the other children. The corridor was old, its walls lined with dust-laden tapestries that whispered secrets of a time before laughter filled the house.
At the end of the corridor stood five doors. Each bore a distinct symbol: the Sun, the Mountain, the River, the Flame… and the Half Moon.
The child tilted her head, drawn inexplicably to the door with the Half Moon symbol. There was something about it—something different. Unlike the others, its handle was cool to the touch, its wood seemed untouched by time. Without hesitation, she reached up and pushed it open.
The air changed.
The warm glow of the House of the Hearth vanished, replaced by the soft luminescence of a vast, pale garden. Silver sand stretched out like an endless sea, catching the light from an unseen moon. The sky overhead was neither day nor night, but something in between—a perpetual twilight where time felt slow, almost still.
The child's small feet sank into the silver sand as she took hesitant steps forward. The hush of the place was overwhelming. There was no wind, no chirping crickets, no rustling of leaves. Just quiet.
And then, she saw it—a ruined castle, half-buried in the sand.
Its walls, once grand, were now covered in ivy and sorrow. Tattered banners hung from its high towers, their edges frayed and forgotten. The archways were cracked, the stone floor uneven, yet there was something beautiful about the way the ruin stood against the silent landscape.
Within its walls sat a woman dressed in silver.
She was weaving.
Her hands moved methodically, threading strands of silver into something intricate, something endless. She never paused, never hesitated. Her expression remained unreadable, but her shoulders carried the weight of something unspoken, something that had long since settled into her bones.
And though she did not make a sound, the child could see the shimmer of tears slipping down her face.
The child did not understand sorrow, not the kind that lingered like a ghost, nor the kind that seeped into the air of a place. But she understood tears.
Without hesitation, the child marched forward, her voice clear and direct.
"You're crying."
The woman's hands stilled, if only for a moment. Her silver eyes, distant like the stars, turned toward the child. There was no anger, no startle—just a quiet acknowledgment.
The child, unbothered by the lack of response, plopped down onto the stone floor and watched her weave.
"I cry too sometimes," she said after a moment, her little legs kicking idly against the ground. "But Father Hearth always makes it better. Do you want me to get him?"
The woman shook her head, a small, sad smile barely touching her lips before she returned to her weaving.
The child frowned. This simply would not do.
And so, she tried to make her smile.
She told jokes—some she had overheard from the older children, others she made up on the spot (though they didn't make much sense). She tried silly faces, funny dances, even flailing her arms in what she was *sure* was a very dramatic performance. But nothing worked.
The woman in silver remained the same—silent, distant, untouched by the child's efforts.
The child huffed, crossing her arms. "You're really hard to cheer up."
But she did not give up.
If words and performances didn't work, then perhaps actions would.
She pulled a handful of silver sand into her lap and dug into her pocket, pulling out tiny bits of dried pasta she had collected from dinner. The child hummed in concentration as she arranged them carefully, pressing the pasta into the silver dust to form a pattern—a face, with wide, silly eyes and an exaggerated grin.
Macaroni art.
Her masterpiece.
She held it up proudly, her smile wide and expectant. "Look! This is you!"
The woman paused. She glanced at the lumpy, uneven pasta face with its wonky smile and slightly misplaced eyes.
For a moment—just the briefest of moments—something flickered across her expression. Not quite amusement, not quite sadness, but something in between.
She did not laugh.
She did not smile.
But she reached out, her fingers brushing against the silver sand. And with a quiet, nearly invisible movement, she tucked a small piece of pasta into the folds of her dress.
The child beamed.
Encouraged, she continued her mission. She dusted off old tapestries, sat beside the woman as she wove, and—most importantly—kept making macaroni art.
She wasn't sure how long she had been there, only that at some point, her little body began to feel heavy, her eyes drooping with sleep.
Vivian looked at her once more and
Then—she saw it.
An invisible symbol, flickering just beyond her vision. It was faint, almost nonexistent, but its presence sent a small jolt through her chest. A symbol of flame, her smile stiffened and then.
Her thoughts immediately screamed: FATHER HEARTH, PLEASE COME AND GET THIS CHILD.
And as if summoned by her very thoughts, Father Hearth was there.
His towering frame, warm as the fire he embodied, stepped into the ruined castle, his gaze sweeping over the scene—the silver sands, the weeping woman, the sleepy child. His expression, ever calm, softened only slightly when his eyes met the woman's.
Vivian.
The Lonely Moon Under the Sky.
She looked at him, as she always did—with a gaze that spoke of things unsaid, of memories buried in time, of something that had long since drifted beyond reach.
Father Hearth knelt, gathering the drowsy child into his arms. He did not scold, nor did he reprimand. He simply held her close, his warmth seeping into her small frame.
But before he turned to leave, he spoke.
"You can return," he said softly. "If you wish."
Vivian—once a child of the Hearth, now a weave in silence—lowered her gaze.
She did not answer.
She simply turned back to her loom, back to her weaving, back to the endless threads of silver that bound her to this place.
Father Hearth said nothing more.
As he carried the child back through the door, the last thing she saw before sleep took her was the lonely figure in silver, weaving beneath the half-moon sky