He came to the House of the Hearth during a quiet winter. Snow fell in soft flurries, and the chimneys glowed with warmth. He was thin, small for his age, and his breaths trembled with effort. But his eyes—those eyes were filled with stars.
His name was Elijah.
He was not the first child to arrive weak, nor the first to carry illness in his bones. But there was something about Elijah that stirred the warmth in the bricks and embers of the House. When Father Hearth knelt to meet him that first day, Elijah whispered, "Do you have room for dreamers?"
Elijah was not strong enough to run through the halls like the others, nor could he help gather firewood or hang garlands. But he could dream. And so he dreamed for them all. He dreamed of flying boats that sailed on candlelight. Of floating gardens above the chimneys. Of lullabies made of silver thread that could mend broken hearts.
The day Elijah died, the House was silent.
He passed in his sleep, a smile on his face, his hand resting over the lantern. The flame did not flicker out. Instead, it rose, gently, drifting upward like a firefly into the sky.
They buried him in the Field of White Flowers, beneath the House, where the other children rested. His stone was simple, yet full of care. Carved at the top was a small lantern, with a tiny star inside.
Elijah – The Dreaming Light
"He dreamed for us all."
Age at death: 11
The 501st child to join the House.
–
The House of the Hearth was quieter than usual.
Mother Goose had taken a handful of children on one of her excursions—something about art supplies, tea cakes, and a performance involving sock puppets and absolutely no explosions this time (she swore). With her expressive chatter and the children's endless energy gone from the halls, a soft stillness blanketed the house like fresh snowfall.
Father Hearth sat alone in the kitchen. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, a low, comforting murmur. A teapot rested on the worn wooden table, steam curling into the air. He poured himself a cup, the fragrance of dark herbs and embers rising to meet him. He drank in silence.
Then, without so much as a knock or the sound of footsteps, the door opened.
In stepped a man draped in flowing black robes trimmed with silver thread. He smelled of lilies, freshly tilled earth, and faintly of something eternal. His skin was pale, his smile warm and calm, and his eyes carried the softness of endings well-earned.
"Your tea always smells so mournful," said Admatha, the god of death, as he let himself in and sat across from Father Hearth like he had been invited.
"It is fennel," Father Hearth replied, unmoved. "You always say that."
Admatha sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair and folding one leg over the other. "Because it's *true.* You never try anything floral. Would it kill you to steep something with rose petals?"
"I've never cared for flowers in my tea."
"Which is a crime," Admatha said, smiling.
There was no tension between them. Just familiarity—the kind that ran old and deep, like a well-worn stone path trodden by timeless feet. Father Hearth stood and fetched a second cup. He poured the tea silently, sliding it across the table.
"You've come for someone?" Father Hearth asked.
"No," Admatha said, cupping the porcelain gently. "Not today. I came only to visit."
They sat quietly, the flicker of firelight dancing between them. Tea was sipped. Words were few, but their silence was not empty.
"You stayed for Elijah," Father Hearth said after some time.
Admatha nodded. "He asked me if I was cold. I said yes, and he offered to hold my hand." He chuckled. "What sort of child offers comfort to Death?"
"A child of the Hearth," Father Hearth replied simply.
Admatha smiled again, more gently this time. "You raise them well."
They spoke a little more—of old names, of quiet passings, of the way time folds in on places like this. Then, like mist slipping back into the morning air, Admatha stood.
"I won't stay longer. You'll be receiving company."
Just as he turned to leave, the front door burst open.
Mother Goose entered in a flurry of feathers and noise, her arms juggling three bags of groceries, one paint-smeared child clinging to her coat, and a wide-eyed toddler holding a snail.
"HEARTH," she called, "REMIND ME NEVER TO LET LUCIA CHOOSE THE ROUTE HOME. AND WHY DID THE BAKER LOOK AT ME LIKE I WAS A WITCH WHEN I ASKED FOR BREAD WITH SOUL IN IT?"
She stopped. Looked around.
Sniffed.
"…It smells like lilies," she muttered.
Father Hearth was seated at the table, alone, sipping his tea as if he hadn't moved. The second cup sat across from him—empty and faintly warm.
Mother Goose squinted. "Was someone just here?"
"No," Father Hearth said calmly.
"You sure?"
"Only a breeze."
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "A very flowery breeze," she muttered. "You always get visitors when I'm gone."
She moved on, corralling the children and chattering about snails, paint, and why feathers were not an acceptable substitute for currency at the general store.
And behind her, on the table where Admatha had sat, rested a single lily petal. White. Untouched. Still fragrant.
Father Hearth said nothing.
And the fire burned quietly, as it always did.