In all their lifetimes—and they had seen many—there were few things that Father Hearth and Mother Goose mutually regretted.
But stepping into Nathan Void's personal dimension was quickly being added to that exclusive list.
It started innocently enough. Nathan, their old and chaotic friend, had invited them over for tea. It had been centuries since they visited his personal domain, and last time—though confusing—they had managed to leave with all limbs, most of their sanity, and a new tea blend that tasted like moonlight and nostalgia.
But this time, it was different.
"Are we even upright?" Mother Goose asked after they passed through the dimensional threshold. Her eyes blinked rapidly as she tried to recalibrate her sense of direction. "I swear the floor just wiggled."
Father Hearth, ever stoic, looked down. "Yes," he said calmly. "It did."
The first thing they noticed was that there was no up. Or down. Or left. Or right. Direction was a suggestion, not a rule. They were currently walking on what might've been the side of a staircase, but the stairs curved upward, then dipped sideways, and halfway up the wall was a fountain pouring tea sideways into a levitating teacup.
The color scheme wasn't helping either.
"This entire zone is black and white," Mother Goose muttered, adjusting her shawl, which now seemed to flap in a nonexistent breeze. "Even my dress looks like it's in an old cartoon!"
"Don't step on the white tiles," Father Hearth murmured.
"Why?"
"They giggle."
True to his word, a childlike giggle emerged from the floor as she stepped on a white square. She recoiled. "Nathan, I'm going to pluck every last one of your eyebrows."
They pushed onward through the first section, which could best be described as an MC Escher painting having an emotional breakdown. The staircases looped into themselves, some ending in mirrors, others leading into doors that only opened from the other side, and some stairs... bit them.
"I'm starting to suspect this section was made to test our patience," Goose muttered, pulling a bandage from her sleeve and wrapping her shin. "One of the stairs growled at me."
Then, without warning, the black-and-white gave way to blinding yellow.
The second section was worse.
They were now in what might've once been a garden, except the dirt grew on the trees, and the leaves were made of cobwebs and golden bells. The sky was yellow. The grass was yellow. Even the clouds were vaguely mustard-tinted and rained lemon-scented sugar.
"What is this place?" Goose said, shielding her eyes.
A giant bee floated by wearing a top hat.
"I don't know," Hearth said, carefully stepping over an upside-down mushroom that was playing music. "But I suspect this is where his mind wanders when he's drunk on starlight."
At least this part had gravity.
Mostly.
The pair continued onward, traversing through the topsy-turvy orchard. A few trees whispered secrets. One recited bad poetry. One tree tried to give Mother Goose fashion advice.
They passed through a tunnel made of yellow jello, which burped as they exited.
And then… things got worse.
They were getting closer to Nathan's house. That was the only thing they knew for certain.
Because the colors began to bleed.
Quite literally, the air seemed to melt and merge like oil in water. Purple fizzed into green, which twisted into blue that screamed, while orange flashed like lightning. The pathway beneath their feet cracked into jagged rainbows.
"Do you feel that?" Goose asked, her voice shaky.
"There is no gravity," Hearth replied flatly. He was floating sideways.
They were drifting now—upward? Backward? Inward?
A fish swam by them through the air. It had legs. It sang in Latin.
Eventually, they came upon Nathan's house.
It stood—or perhaps floated—in the center of a massive whirlpool of fractured space. The house itself looked like it was made of dreams left half-finished. One part looked like a cozy cottage, the other like a shattered castle. There were at least five chimneys, one of which had a cat stuck in it playing a violin.
The front door opened before they even knocked.
Nathan Void stood in the doorway, his coat billowing with nonexistent wind, his hat slightly too big for his head. His smile was far too wide.
"WELCOME!" he declared. "You're just in time for the disorientation pie!"
"We passed a garden that tried to marry me," Goose said.
"Ah. The Yellow Orchard. Lovely this time of eternity."
Father Hearth nodded politely. "We would like to sit."
Nathan nodded. "Of course. Follow me. Or don't. You might arrive faster that way."
They stepped inside and immediately realized that each room of the house had its own gravity. In the foyer, they were walking sideways along the walls. In the hallway, they had to climb using ladders that didn't touch the floor or ceiling. And in the dining room…
"Oh come on," Mother Goose snapped. "No gravity at all?"
They were now floating. The table floated. The chairs floated. The food floated. Each dish looked beautiful—delicate pastries, bubbling stews, shimmering fruit.
But then they tasted it.
"This looks like a tart," Goose said, biting into one.
"It tastes like heartbreak," Hearth replied.
"This one tastes like public speaking," Goose whispered, grimacing.
Nathan drifted by upside down, sipping from a teacup that seemed to dissolve and reform every few seconds. "Ah yes. I switched the taste-palette fields last week. Keeps the guests on their toes."
"I'm going to throttle you with your own concept of time," Goose hissed.
The dessert platter ran away before they could reach it.
Eventually, they drifted toward the parlor room. The couch was upside down on the ceiling, but they managed to sit with some effort.
Nathan poured them tea. It smelled like memory and grief. They sipped it anyway.
"Why does your dimension feel like a fever dream?" Mother Goose asked, rubbing her temples.
"Because it is," Nathan said, delighted. "I modeled it after a story that never ends."
"I hate that that makes sense."
"We just wanted tea," Father Hearth added.
"Oh I have tea! Endless kinds. One of them tastes like forgiveness."
"I want chamomile."
"Ah. That's in the pantry made of paper. Mind the fire-breathing spoon."
Eventually, after what might have been hours—or seconds—they decided it was time to leave. Nathan saw them to the door (or possibly the window that acted like a door), still upside down.
"Next time, let's meet in your domain," he said cheerfully. "This place gets weird."
Mother Goose growled. "Gets? It was. You made us eat regret pudding!"
"I liked the pudding," Father Hearth admitted.
"You would."
Nathan waved cheerfully as they left. "Tell Gunther I said hello! And don't forget to duck when you exit—"
BOOM.
They landed unceremoniously in the garden of the House of the Hearth, both of them covered in rainbow dust and sugar bees.
Father Hearth dusted off his robe. "We're not doing that again."
Mother Goose groaned, rolling over. "Next time we're inviting him here. With rules."
"And fixed gravity."
"And food that doesn't lie to my face."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then a child wandered into the garden.
"Why do you both smell like confusion and pears?" she asked.
Father Hearth stood. "Long story."
Mother Goose nodded solemnly. "Don't ask. Just… never ask."
And from the sky above, a faint chuckle echoed—Nathan's dimension letting them go.
For now.