The small bell above the bookstore's door jingled as it swung open. A quiet place of wisdom, warmth, and dust-laden parchment, The Little Lantern Bookshop was usually a sanctuary of peace, where scholars, dreamers, and the occasional lost soul found solace among the shelves.
Today, that peace was shattered.
Mother Goose burst into the store like an explosion of storytelling incarnate.
"Oh! Oh!" she gasped, twirling in place, arms outstretched like a conductor leading an orchestra of books. Her golden-stitched cloak flared, her feathered hat tilted dramatically, and her wide eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement.
"Behold! A temple of knowledge! A cathedral of imagination! Oh, the stories these walls must have witnessed! The whispers of forgotten legends! The secrets of distant lands!"
The bookstore's patrons—scholars, quiet readers, and the elderly shopkeeper—froze in place. Books hovered mid-air, caught in the hands of readers too stunned to move. One customer, who had just picked up a novel, stared at Mother Goose as if she had descended from the heavens itself (which, to be fair, was not entirely incorrect).
And then, as if the world was balancing itself, he entered.
Father Hearth stepped inside with measured calm, the door closing softly behind him. He did not gasp, twirl, or exclaim. He simply was—a towering presence wrapped in deep ember-colored robes, his aura steady as the glow of a fire in winter.
He looked around once, taking in the countless shelves, the dust in the air, the silent awe of the onlookers. Then he walked forward without hesitation. Not a single unnecessary movement.
Mother Goose threw her arms up. "Must you be so dull?!"
Father Hearth picked up a book from a nearby shelf. "We are here to find books."
She gasped, clutching her chest as if mortally wounded. "Oh! What tragedy! What blasphemy! You stand in the very heart of storytelling and treat it as nothing more than a marketplace!"
A young bookstore assistant—a girl who had been in the process of stacking books—gulped audibly and quickly took cover behind a shelf.
An older scholar at a reading table adjusted his glasses and mumbled, "This is going to be interesting…"
Meanwhile, Father Hearth flipped open the book in his hands. "Stories are meant to be read, not worshipped."
Mother Goose gasped so dramatically that several bookshelves shuddered in fear. "Worshipped?! Oh, dear, smoldering Hearth, you wound me! To say such things in front of them!" She gestured wildly to the books, as if they were living beings with feelings.
Father Hearth turned a page. "They are books."
She gasped louder. A young customer—a university student—actually winced as if he felt secondhand embarrassment for the books themselves.
A beat of silence passed.
Then Mother Goose huffed, striding toward a shelf labeled "Classics and Myths." She traced her fingers along the spines of the books, tilting her head dramatically. "Oh, if only these pages could speak, they would tell you how heartless you are! How cruel, how unforgiving! A man who stands before a well of dreams and only sees paper!"
Father Hearth, meanwhile, had already picked out three books.
She paused, squinting at his choices.
"…A treatise on firewood selection?"
He nodded. "It is practical."
She dramatically turned away. "Oh, hopeless!"
The elderly bookstore owner—an old man with round glasses—watched with the same patience one would have for two squabbling children. He stepped forward hesitantly. "Ah… do you need any help finding something?"
Mother Goose turned to him so fast her hat nearly flew off. She grasped his hands, eyes shining. "Oh, dear sir! A fellow keeper of stories! I seek the tales of grand adventure! The epics of heroes long past! The fables that make the soul sigh with longing!"
The old man blinked. "…Ah. You'll want the 'Legends and Lore' section."
She beamed, releasing him. "Oh! A treasure trove awaits! I shall embark on a journey through these pages!"
Meanwhile, Father Hearth handed the old man his three books. "I am ready to purchase."
The owner hesitated, then asked, "Would you like a bag?"
"No."
Mother Goose gasped. "No?! Oh! You shall carry them as they are? Without a proper vessel?"
Father Hearth glanced at her. "They will not burn."
She clutched her forehead. "You are insufferable!"
Several customers were now openly watching, some trying (and failing) to suppress laughter. A teenage boy whispered to his friend, "Are they a couple or something?" and his friend elbowed him in the ribs.
Meanwhile, Mother Goose had gathered an armful of books, nearly twice her size, and staggered toward the counter. "Oh! A bounty of legends! Such riches! A true hoard worthy of a storyteller!"
Father Hearth regarded the tower of books in her arms. "Will you read all of them?"
She sniffed. "Of course! A tale unread is a voice unheard!"
Father Hearth nodded. "You will need another bookshelf."
She froze.
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, with genuine horror, she whispered, "Oh no… I am out of space."
The bookstore fell silent as Mother Goose collapsed into a chair, her arms draped over the books, her eyes hollow with despair.
Father Hearth sighed. "I will build you one."
She gasped, clutching his sleeve. "Oh! You would?!"
A long pause. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he answered, "Yes."
A single tear of dramatic gratitude welled in her eye. "Oh, Hearth… you do care."
Father Hearth simply took his books and turned toward the door. "We are leaving."
Mother Goose leapt to her feet, clutching her purchases. "Oh, what a fine adventure! A quest for stories, a future with more shelves! Oh, how fate smiles upon me this day!"
As they left, the bookstore remained silent for a long moment.
Then, the young bookstore assistant peeked out from behind her hiding spot. "What… was that?"
The old shopkeeper sighed, shaking his head. "That, my dear… was two forces of nature. And thank the heavens they were here for books and not an argument."