The quiet elegance of Silk & Starlight, the most refined tailor shop in town, was shattered the moment Mother Goose burst through the doors like a whirlwind of theatrical flair.
"Oh, what marvels! What artistry!" she gasped, twirling in place, her feathery cloak flaring dramatically. The sheer excitement in her voice made a row of neatly hung dresses tremble as if preparing for flight.
Bolts of fabric gleamed under the soft chandelier light, and tailors in pristine uniforms froze mid-stitch as they beheld the sudden arrival of chaos personified.
Following behind her, like a walking contrast to her explosion of emotion, was Father Hearth. He stepped inside calmly, his deep ember-colored robe barely shifting with his movement. He exuded a presence of stoic inevitability, like the slow, steady warmth of an ancient fireplace.
He looked around once, eyes scanning the luxurious fabrics, finely tailored coats, and delicate silks, before stating, simply, "We are here for clothes."
"Oh, my dear, smoldering Hearth!" Mother Goose spun to face him, her hands flung to the heavens. "We are not merely here for clothes—we are here for statements! For expression! For the very threads that weave our souls into artistry!"
Father Hearth picked up a plain black coat. "This will do."
A collective gasp rippled through the shop.
A young apprentice tailor, a girl no older than eighteen, nearly dropped the velvet ribbon she was measuring. The shop's master, an elderly tailor with years of experience, looked as if he had just witnessed a crime against fashion.
Mother Goose clutched her chest, as if mortally wounded. "That? That… lifeless husk of fabric?"
Father Hearth inspected the coat. "It is warm."
She gasped louder. A customer in the corner—a noblewoman examining lace gloves—paused, glancing at them with barely concealed amusement.
One of the tailors, a well-dressed young man, hesitated before stepping forward. "Sir, if I may… this coat is quite plain. Would you like to consider something more… distinguished?"
Father Hearth turned to him, his expression unreadable. "It fulfills its purpose."
Mother Goose whirled to the tailor. "Oh, dear artisan, do not waste your breath. My dear Hearth is married to functionality. If he could, he would wear bricks and call it efficient!"
Father Hearth considered this. "Bricks are heavy."
"That is not the point!"
By now, half the shop's customers had abandoned their shopping to watch the spectacle. One older gentleman nudged his wife. "This is better than the theater."
Undeterred, Mother Goose marched toward a row of vibrant coats, running her fingers over lush blues, deep reds, and golden embroideries.
She yanked a coat off the rack—a royal blue masterpiece with intricate silver thread woven in swirling patterns—and held it aloft. "Behold! A coat worthy of a king! Stitched with the dreams of poets, kissed by the very essence of—"
Father Hearth took one look at it and stated, "Too flashy."
She dropped the coat, staggering back as if he had stabbed her.
The apprentice tailor winced, as if fearing for the fate of their most expensive garments.
Mother Goose, now clutching a crimson cloak lined with gold, spun to him once more. "Then this! A color as bold as a hero's heart! A mantle that—"
"No."
"Why?!"
"It is impractical."
Mother Goose threw the cloak over her own shoulders with a dramatic flair. "Oh, you are hopeless!" She turned to the tailors, eyes gleaming. "Very well! If he refuses to embrace fashion, then I shall do so in his place! Prepare yourselves, for I demand nothing less than grandeur!"
The tailors exchanged glances, then nodded. Within moments, the entire shop was at her service.
A flurry of fabrics, pins, and measuring tapes filled the air. Dresses of flowing silks and gem-encrusted embroidery were brought forth, and Mother Goose posed grandly before each mirror, twirling and exclaiming, "Too modest! Too drab! Too—ah! Perfection!"
Meanwhile, Father Hearth stood completely still, waiting.
An hour passed.
The tailors looked exhausted but victorious as they stepped back to admire Mother Goose's new attire—an elegant midnight blue cloak lined with golden stars, a feathered hat with a sapphire pin, and a gown that shimmered like woven moonlight.
She turned to Hearth, arms spread. "Well?"
He regarded her for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "It suits you."
She beamed. "Ah! A victory! A rare compliment from the stone-hearted flame himself!"
One of the tailors, emboldened by the exchange, hesitantly asked, "Sir… are you certain you won't try something… different?"
Father Hearth looked at them. Then, in one smooth motion, he removed his ember-colored robe, revealing a simple black tunic underneath.
The tailors collectively froze.
Mother Goose nearly choked on air.
Father Hearth, completely indifferent to the reaction, picked a deep brown overcoat—lined with fur, heavy but durable—and pulled it over his shoulders.
The apprentice tailor stared at him, stunned. "It… it actually suits him."
Mother Goose clutched the counter for support. "Hearth… you… you changed clothes."
He adjusted the sleeves. "It is warm."
A long silence stretched across the shop.
Then—applause.
The tailors, the customers, even the noblewoman clapped in genuine appreciation, as if witnessing a historic moment.
Mother Goose, overwhelmed, sniffled dramatically. "You have grown…! My dear Hearth has evolved beyond his old, tattered robes!"
Father Hearth simply handed the tailor a few gold coins. "We are finished."
As they stepped out of the shop, Mother Goose wiped a fake tear from her eye. "This has been a momentous day."
Father Hearth adjusted his new coat. "It fulfills its purpose."
She sighed. "Oh, Hearth. Never change."
He glanced at her. "I just did."
She stared at him, then burst into laughter as they walked down the street, two forces of nature leaving the stunned tailor shop behind.