The sun hung high and kind over the town's cobblestone market square. Colorful tents fluttered in the breeze, hawkers called out the freshness of their wares, and laughter bubbled from children darting between baskets of fruit and crates of herbs. Mother Goose strolled between stalls, feathered hat bouncing slightly with each step, her arms full of honey jars, thread spools, and tea leaves that smelled like sunshine.
"Oh, apples with freckles—my favorite kind," she cooed, plucking a few and slipping them into her basket. "Now if I can just find the vendor who sells that cinnamon bark that doesn't explode…"
Then came a giggle. Not the kind a child makes after being tickled. No, this was brighter. Stronger. Like a bell made of laughter, rung not once, but again and again and again.
She turned.
There, standing in the middle of the market path, was a child in a yellow raincoat.
No rainclouds in sight.
His hood was pulled up, face hidden in the soft shadow of yellow fabric, but his eyes sparkled like polished glass marbles. He bounced on his heels, waved both hands with joy that radiated like summer heat, and grinned with the kind of purity that could crack the sky.
"Goosey Goose!" he cheered.
Mother Goose blinked. "Joy?"
"The one and only!" he sang, spinning in place and catching a paper streamer that floated by. "Haven't seen you in years! I thought maybe you got eaten by grumpiness!"
"I haven't," she said, adjusting her hat and raising a brow. "Though you look like you've been bouncing between carnivals again."
"I have!" Joy beamed, throwing both arms in the air. "And puppet shows! And birthday parties! And once I got trapped in a jar of confetti, but it was glorious!"
Despite herself, Mother Goose smiled. How could she not? Joy was not just a child. He was Joy—the living embodiment of happiness, cheer, and wild belly laughs that made your ribs ache. Where he walked, even sunflowers looked jealous.
He slipped his tiny hand into hers. "Come on! Let's shop!"
Before she could protest, he was dragging her from stall to stall, bartering with toothy grins and high-pitched giggles. He swapped a giggle for a tangerine. Traded a twirl for a stick of peppermint. Made a baby stop crying just by blowing raspberries into the wind.
Vendors smiled as he passed. Even the grumpy ones. A butcher gave him a sweet roll. An old flower seller braided a daisy crown and placed it on his hood. He skipped, he twirled, he sang nonsense songs in three different keys.
Mother Goose laughed more than she expected.
But as the sun began to dip lower and shadows lengthened across the cobbles, Joy stopped mid-skip.
"I have to go," he said with a giggle. "There's a little boy in the next town who forgot how to smile. Gotta fix that."
Mother Goose knelt beside him. "Will I see you again?"
Joy grinned. "Of course! When you need me. Or maybe when you don't know you need me."
He leaned forward, kissed her cheek—light as a breeze—and bounded away, vanishing between market stalls like a mirage.
The moment he was gone, the warmth lingered... but only barely.
Mother Goose stood in place for a long moment. The cheer remained, yes—but the air felt thinner now, and quieter. She looked up at the sky, her smile bittersweet.
"Poor boy," she whispered.
Because she knew.
Joy laughed always, danced always, smiled always.
But he couldn't feel anything else.
No sadness. No fear. No pain. No understanding of what it meant to miss, to mourn, to long for someone who wouldn't return.
She held her basket a little tighter.
And as she walked home through the bustling market, her hat tilted against the wind, she hummed a soft lullaby—for those who smile, even when they don't know why they should.