Mother Goose had been to the House of the Hearth many times before. She was used to its noise, its relentless whirlwind of energy—the crash of wooden swords, the shrieks of laughter echoing down the great halls, the stampede of a hundred bare feet chasing something, or nothing at all. The house was chaos wrapped in love, a cacophony stitched together by warmth and firelight.
But this time, something was different.
As she stepped into the familiar threshold, expecting to be greeted by tumbling toddlers and teens in mid-argument over who had stolen whose pudding, she was instead met with silence. The fire still burned in the great hearth, but it was low and gentle, more a quiet murmur than the usual roaring flame. The air held a stillness, a heaviness, like the world itself was holding its breath.
The children were gathered, but none were running. None were shouting. They walked softly through the halls, their voices hushed, their clothes black. Their eyes did not shine with mischief, but with solemnity.
Mother Goose blinked, her feathery hat drooping slightly as she leaned toward one of the children—a quiet boy with round spectacles and messy hair.
"What's going on, dear?" she asked softly, touching his shoulder.
The boy, Ezra, looked up at her with wide, dark eyes. "It's the Day of Remembrance," he said simply. "We wear black for the ones who came before. For those who are gone."
Before she could ask more, an older child appeared—a girl with braids tied with silver thread. Her name was Linne. Her expression was calm, matured by something heavier than age.
"Would you like to visit the Graveyard?" she asked. "Father Hearth is there."
Without fully knowing why, Mother Goose nodded. Linne took her hand gently and led her through the house—not the part she knew, not the cozy halls or the warm kitchens, but a deeper place. A place that only revealed itself on days like this.
They passed other children along the way. Little Poppy, who clutched a single white petal in her hand. Arin and Nell, twins who usually bickered but now walked in quiet unity. Calen, tall and kind, his steps soft despite his size. Elouan, who used to hum tunes from forgotten lands, now silent as the stars above.
And then, the path opened.
The graveyard stretched before her like a dream.
A sea of white flowers blanketed the field, their petals catching the faintest breeze. The flowers seemed to glow, not with light, but with memory—soft and gentle, like the fading notes of a lullaby. Each grave was marked by stone, smooth and lovingly kept. The names engraved on them were clear, as if they had just been written.
There were five hundred in total.
Five hundred children.
Children who had once laughed in the House of the Hearth, who had once held Father Hearth's hand, who had been tucked in beneath patchwork quilts and kissed goodnight by firelight. Children who had come and gone, whose stories had ended too soon—or perhaps just at their appointed time.
And there, among the graves, was Father Hearth.
He moved slowly, deliberately, his great form cloaked in dark robes. In his hand was a bouquet of fire roses—flowers that bloomed with flickering petals like tiny flames. For each grave, he knelt. For each grave, he placed a single fire rose.
And for each name, he spoke.
"Ellie, who used to hum in her sleep."
"Jasper, who painted suns on the walls."
"Lina, who always asked why."
"Thomas, who never feared the dark."
"Min, who danced every time it rained."
"Auberon, who swore he could speak to the stars."
"Lyra, who once sewed wings for every child so they could fly in dreams."
"Bram, who dreamed of being a knight, and always held the door."
"Celeste, who gave names to the clouds."
"Emery, who would cry at the sound of sad music but always smiled through the tears."
One by one, the names fell from his lips like gentle embers. His voice didn't break. It was soft. Strong. Steady.
Mother Goose watched from the edge, her feathers ruffling slightly in the quiet breeze. She clutched her hands, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. Not just the loss, but the love. The care. The remembrance.
She finally understood.
The House of the Hearth was not just a home for the wild and the young, not just a place of laughter and bedtime stories. It was a sanctuary—a place where every soul mattered, and every passing was honored. Where memory lived not in silence, but in firelight and flower petals.
She stepped forward quietly, and Father Hearth turned to her.
His eyes, usually glowing with the warmth of a hearthfire, were subdued, but not sorrowful. They held centuries of grief, yes—but also peace. Acceptance. Love.
"You came," he said simply.
"I had to," she replied. "They were yours."
"They still are," he murmured. "Always."
Together, they stood among the flowers, and Mother Goose bent down, plucked a single white bloom, and placed it gently on a stone that had no name.
"For the forgotten ones," she whispered.
Father Hearth nodded. "No one is truly forgotten. Not here."
And above them, the wind stirred, carrying the scent of fire roses and old lullabies.
Then, as her gaze wandered across the rows of graves, Mother Goose noticed something curious—nine tombstones, each more ornate than the others. Their stone was etched with silver and gold, their edges inlaid with warm-colored gems, and they stood in a gentle crescent formation.
She stepped closer, reading the names and the lives carved beneath them.
1st Child – Elias the Kindhearted
"He gave bread to a stranger and asked for nothing in return. That stranger lit the first fire."
Age at death: 83
He was the first to call Father Hearth by name. A quiet boy with a big heart, Elias never raised his voice but raised countless spirits. He became a healer, beloved by many, and built the first nursery in the house.
2nd Child – Mira of the Bells
"She could make sorrow dance."
Age at death: 40
Mira had a voice that echoed joy and sorrow in equal measure. She was the one who turned the halls of the house into music, teaching every child a song to remember themselves by.
3rd Child – Orin the Shield
"He stood in front of many storms so others wouldn't have to."
Age at death: 66
Orin was known for protecting the younger children, often bruised and battered but always smiling. He later led the House through a great winter when food was scarce, sharing his portion until spring.
4th Child – Selene the Dreamwright
"She drew windows into the stars."
Age at death: 31
A visionary who turned every corner of the House into something magical. She painted stars on ceilings and hid lullabies in drawers. Many of her dreams still live in the walls.
6th Child – Alden the Emberhand
"He could coax fire into laughter."
Age at death: 90
A stubborn and brilliant soul, Alden worked beside Father Hearth in tending the flames of the house. He eventually became a teacher of flamecraft, known for laughing louder than the fire he wielded.
7th Child – Junia the Small Thunder
"She roared in justice, even when small."
Age at death: 13
The youngest of the heroes. Junia once stood between a bully and a boy thrice her size. Though her life was short, her courage lit a fire that still burns in the youngest hearts.
8th Child – Rowan of the Lantern
"He walked every dark corridor, just to leave the light on."
Age at death: 54
Rowan charted the endless halls of the House, mapping places even Father Hearth had forgotten. Thanks to him, no child ever had to fear the dark again.
9th Child – Imara the Silent Flame
"She spoke little, but the fire listened."
Age at death: 77
Imara was serene and still. A master of quiet magic, her spells never shouted, but reshaped the House subtly with warmth and grace. It is said she calmed storms simply by being present.
10th Child – Caelum the Sky Dancer
"He never stopped dreaming of the clouds."
Age at death: 28
He fell from the rooftop once trying to catch a shooting star. He survived—and built wings. Caelum made flying machines for the children, and once flew over the garden of white flowers with Father Hearth watching, smiling like a proud father.
Certainly—here's a revised version with a slightly different tone and structure:
Mother Goose lingered at each ornate stone, her fingers brushing against the carvings as if she could feel the echoes of laughter, music, and mischief that once lived there. Her breath caught more than once, and her wings felt heavy with the weight of remembrance. These weren't merely names etched in stone—they were the roots of the House, the first sparks that lit its halls.
And in that quiet moment, she saw Father Hearth not just as a keeper of flame and comfort, but as a guardian of stories long past. A shepherd of souls who carried every child's light within him, even when their own had faded.