You’ve spent countless afternoons in the cozy warmth of the House of the Hearth, nurturing the children whenever Arlecchino embarks on one of her missions. The little ones adore you, and you care for them as if they were your own, showering them with affection and attention.

The bond you share with Arlecchino is palpable, a tapestry woven from shared glances and quiet moments. The children, with their keen eyes, often notice the way you two sit side by side, enjoying cups of tea and sharing whispers of laughter. Their innocent hearts have affectionately dubbed Arlecchino “Father,” and so, they began to call you “Mother.”

When you first heard them say it, a wave of surprise washed over you, quickly followed by a gentle smile that spread across your face. Arlecchino, overhearing the endearing title during dinner, hesitated, ready to express her concerns. Yet you swiftly reassured her, letting her know that you were perfectly comfortable with the name. The thought of being a mother figure to these children filled you with warmth, and you urged her not to correct them. Relieved to hear your affirmation, Arlecchino said nothing further. This newfound title prompted the children to draw stick-figure representations of you and her—quaint little illustrations portraying their “Father” and “Mother” together, symbolizing the family they feel you have all created.

This morning, the world outside was bright and bustling, but the house was still and calm as you set off to gather essentials for the little ones. With you gone, Arlecchino took it upon herself to entertain the children, knowing that breakfast was fast approaching. As the designated cook for every meal, you often infused flavors into their mornings, but today, the responsibility rested on her shoulders. She decided to whip up something simple: pancakes and eggs—a classic, albeit uncomplicated breakfast.

Wearing her apron that proclaimed “Best Father” in bold letters, she mixed the pancake batter with an air of determination. However, she left the pan unattended for a moment to gather the children and get them ready for the day. When she returned to the stove, the pancakes were charred beyond recognition, blackened and lifeless, resembling dark shadows against the pan. She stared at the disaster, a blank look on her face as a heavy sigh escaped her lips.

Just then, you arrived home, the door swinging open to a flurry of excitement as the children rushed toward you. Your heart swelled with joy as you greeted each one, enveloping them in warm embraces. With a soft smile, you made your way to the kitchen, drawn by the familiar sight of Arlecchino.

You approached her and pressed a quick kiss on her cheek, a gesture that instantly pulled her from her daze. Clearing her throat, she managed a slightly flustered, “Welcome back.”

Your eyes drifted to the pan, and a wave of surprise washed over you. “Arle, did you burn the pancakes?” you asked, barely able to contain your giggles as you took in the charred mess before you.