The halls of the House of the Hearth were unusually quiet. No scattered toys. No pillow fort collapsing mid-battle. No stampede of feet echoing down the corridors like the sound of distant thunder. Only a few children drifted through the corridors, whispering softly or carrying books and instruments tucked under their arms.
Mother Goose, arms folded and head tilted, looked around with narrowed eyes. "It's suspiciously peaceful today. Where's all the chaos? Did someone smother it with a quilt?"
Father Hearth, ever composed, walked beside her with hands tucked behind his back. He paused briefly at an ornate grandfather clock, opened the front of it, and pulled out a silver pocket watch. After glancing at the time, he walked over to the wall and adjusted the calendar hanging there.
"Wednesday," he said.
Mother Goose blinked. "...Yes? And?"
He turned toward her. "Music hall day."
Her brow furrowed. We have a music hall?"
"We do."
"You've never mentioned it!"
"You never asked."
Mother Goose stopped mid-step and glared. "I ask questions constantly."
Father Hearth merely nodded, already moving again. "Yes. Just never that one."
Muttering under her breath about stoic men and magical secrets kept from feathered women, she followed him. They passed through a series of old corridors, some lined with portraits that subtly changed their expressions, others humming softly with distant melody. Eventually, they reached a grand double door—carved with vines, lyres, and notes that shimmered faintly as if alive.
Father Hearth gently pushed them open.
The doors creaked, and the soft sound of music drifted into the corridor, pulling them in like a tide.
The music hall was breathtaking. The walls curved like the inside of a seashell, sound rolling through them as naturally as the wind through trees. Stained glass windows filtered in afternoon sunlight that danced across polished floors and velvet-curtained balconies.
And there, on the stage, under the soft golden glow of enchanted lights, stood a girl of about fifteen—tall, steady, her eyes closed in calm concentration. Her hair shimmered like honey in the light, and in her hands she held no instrument. Her voice was the instrument.
The moment she began to sing, the air shifted
(https://youtu.be/IAfC7ENJvis?si=CunX-vojlY7GVO1x) 🎵
It was soft at first, trembling like a breeze through an old letter, then rising with power, as though her voice carried lifetimes. Notes soared, dipped, and wrapped around every corner of the hall. Even the rafters listened.
Her song echoed loss and love, longing and peace. The kind of melody that seemed written not on paper, but on hearts.
Mother Goose stood at the entrance, breath caught halfway in her chest, her hand rising slowly to her lips.
"She… she sounds like rain on parchment," she whispered, eyes glistening.
Father Hearth simply nodded, watching with quiet pride. "Her name is Elara. She joined the house four winters ago. Writes her own songs. Teaches the younger ones lullabies."
The music continued, the other children in the hall sitting with reverent stillness, drawn into the spell of Elara's voice. No mischief. No giggling. Just a sea of stillness, of hearts beating as one in rhythm with the music.
The final note lingered in the air like a held breath—then gently faded.
Silence.
Then applause—soft at first, then rising like a wave. The children clapped with joy, some wiping their eyes, others cheering. Elara smiled humbly and bowed, cheeks flushed.
Mother Goose, still frozen near the door, dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue she had pulled from her sleeve. "You never told me they could *do that.*"
"You never asked," Father Hearth said again, almost teasingly.
She looked up at him, then rolled her eyes through a sniffle. "If you ever hide a painting gallery or secret ballet theatre from me, I swear on every tea leaf I own…"
"I would never," he said, and then, after a beat, added, "The ballet studio is in the east wing."
She gasped. "*You—*!"
The halls of the House of the Hearth were unusually quiet. No scattered toys. No pillow fort collapsing mid-battle. No stampede of feet echoing down the corridors like the sound of distant thunder. Only a few children drifted through the corridors, whispering softly or carrying books and instruments tucked under their arms.
Mother Goose, arms folded and head tilted, looked around with narrowed eyes. "It's *suspiciously* peaceful today. Where's all the chaos? Did someone smother it with a quilt?"
Father Hearth, ever composed, walked beside her with hands tucked behind his back. He paused briefly at an ornate grandfather clock, opened the front of it, and pulled out a silver pocket watch. After glancing at the time, he walked over to the wall and adjusted the calendar hanging there.
"Wednesday," he said.
Mother Goose blinked. "...Yes? And?"
He turned toward her. "Music hall day."
Her brow furrowed. "We have a *music hall*?"
"We do."
"You've *never* mentioned it!"
"You never asked."
Mother Goose stopped mid-step and glared. "I ask questions *constantly.*"
Father Hearth merely nodded, already moving again. "Yes. Just never that one."
Muttering under her breath about stoic men and magical secrets kept from feathered women, she followed him. They passed through a series of old corridors, some lined with portraits that subtly changed their expressions, others humming softly with distant melody. Eventually, they reached a grand double door—carved with vines, lyres, and notes that shimmered faintly as if alive.
Father Hearth gently pushed them open.
The doors creaked, and the soft sound of music drifted into the corridor, pulling them in like a tide.
The music hall was *breathtaking.* The walls curved like the inside of a seashell, sound rolling through them as naturally as the wind through trees. Stained glass windows filtered in afternoon sunlight that danced across polished floors and velvet-curtained balconies.
And there, on the stage, under the soft golden glow of enchanted lights, stood a girl of about fifteen—tall, steady, her eyes closed in calm concentration. Her hair shimmered like honey in the light, and in her hands she held no instrument. Her voice *was* the instrument.
The moment she began to sing, the air shifted.
🎵 [*"Put a candle on my chest..."*](https://youtu.be/IAfC7ENJvis?si=CunX-vojlY7GVO1x) 🎵
It was soft at first, trembling like a breeze through an old letter, then rising with power, as though her voice carried lifetimes. Notes soared, dipped, and wrapped around every corner of the hall. Even the rafters listened.
Her song echoed loss and love, longing and peace. The kind of melody that seemed written not on paper, but on hearts.
Mother Goose stood at the entrance, breath caught halfway in her chest, her hand rising slowly to her lips.
"She… she sounds like rain on parchment," she whispered, eyes glistening.
Father Hearth simply nodded, watching with quiet pride. "Her name is Elara. She joined the house four winters ago. Writes her own songs. Teaches the younger ones lullabies."
The music continued, the other children in the hall sitting with reverent stillness, drawn into the spell of Elara's voice. No mischief. No giggling. Just a sea of stillness, of hearts beating as one in rhythm with the music.
The final note lingered in the air like a held breath—then gently faded.
Silence.
Then applause—soft at first, then rising like a wave. The children clapped with joy, some wiping their eyes, others cheering. Elara smiled humbly and bowed, cheeks flushed.
Mother Goose, still frozen near the door, dabbed at her eyes with a crumpled tissue she had pulled from her sleeve. "You never told me they could do that."
"You never asked," Father Hearth said again, almost teasingly.
She looked up at him, then rolled her eyes through a sniffle. "If you ever hide a painting gallery or secret ballet theatre from me, I swear on every tea leaf I own…"
"I would never," he said, and then, after a beat, added, "The ballet studio is in the east wing."
She gasped. "You—!"
But the rest of her complaint was lost as the next song began,