Request made by: @minisharkbitch !!
Gift for: @siumairyu <3
When the Light Came Back — MOTM
Summary: In a house overflowing with children, noise, and old grief, a widowed father who has lost himself after tragedy slowly begins to rediscover warmth, connection, and the possibility of loving again when someone gentle steps into his chaotic world.
As bonds form and small moments of care begin to mend what once felt beyond repair, healing arrives not as a replacement for the past — but as a new future built beside it.
Pairing: Myth Oswald x Reader
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Emotional Healing, Family / Domestic and Slice of Life
Trope: Grieving Widower, Healing After Loss, Found Family, Soft Domestic Intimacy, Slow Emotional Recovery, Love After Tragedy, Caretaking as Love Language, Gentle Supportive Lover and “I’ll Stay” Romance
Rating: T (Teen)
The house is never quiet.
It can’t be — not with four hundred and twenty children living under one roof.
Noise lives here. It curls into the corners and seeps through the vents. The floorboards creak under the constant stampede of little feet. Doors open and shut and open again. Someone is always crying — the loud, offended cry of a toddler who lost a toy, the quiet hiccuping sob of a child who misses their mom but doesn’t want to say it out loud.
Laughter overlaps with chaos. A pot lid clatters to the floor. A baby wails upstairs. Two kids argue passionately about whether a crayon counts as a vegetable. Somewhere down the hall, someone yells, “I DIDN’T MEAN TO PUT IT IN THE TOILET.”
The air smells like warm milk, soap, old paper, laundry that never quite catches up…
…and ink.
It never really left.
It’s in the walls. In the curtains. In the faint stains on the ceiling that no amount of scrubbing fully erased.
It lingers like memory does.
And at the center of it all…
Oswald sits still.
He’s at the kitchen table, fingers loosely curled around a mug of coffee that went cold a long time ago. The surface reflects the kitchen lights like dark glass. He hasn’t taken a sip in over an hour. Maybe two.
His long ears droop, heavy and lifeless, barely twitching when a child zooms past making airplane noises. His fur — once brushed smooth every morning — now lies uneven, small knots forming near his collar where he forgot to care. His shirt is wrinkled. One suspender hangs slightly twisted.
His eyes look like a house after a fire.
Still standing.
But empty.
The world moves around him — loud, messy, alive — but he feels separated from it, like he’s watching through a window he doesn’t remember closing.
Ever since the blot took her.
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She had been warmth.
Not loud warmth — not fireworks — but the kind that seeps into your bones over years until you can’t imagine cold existing.
She laughed with her whole face. The sound of it used to drift down the hallway before she did. She moved through the house like she had invisible threads tying her to everyone at once — one hand stirring soup, the other fixing a loose button, voice gentle but firm, eyes always soft even when she was tired.
She remembered everything.
Who hated crusts.
Who needed a nightlight.
Who pretended to be brave but cried in closets.
Who liked being tucked in twice.
She’d look at Oswald across a room full of chaos and smile like it was their shared secret.
Like all of this noise, all of this life, was something they built together.
When the blot took her… the structure of his world collapsed inward.
And Oswald folded into himself with it.
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The older children stepped up.
They didn’t complain. They didn’t have time to.
The eldest made schedules with shaking hands. Another learned how to cook meals big enough for a small village. Someone kept track of baths. Medicine. Bedtimes. There are whispered conferences in corners at night.
“Did dad eat?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll stay up with the baby.”
“Don’t let the little ones see you cry.”
They move like tired soldiers in pajamas.
Oswald hears every word.
It lands in his chest like guilt wrapped in cotton — soft but suffocating.
He wants to stand. To help. To be the father he used to be.
But grief is heavy.
Heavier than all 420 of his children combined.
It fills his limbs with wet sand.
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And then you start showing up.
At first, you’re just a knock on the door.
One of the older kids opens it, exhaustion written across their face.
“…Hi?”
“Hey,” you say gently, holding containers in both arms. “I brought food. And… extra hands, if you need them.”
You don’t make a speech. Don’t offer condolences like a script.
You step inside like you belong.
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You don’t stare at the chaos.
You move through it.
You step over toys without complaint. Catch a falling cup mid-air. Lift a toddler onto your hip automatically when they reach up with sticky hands. You wash dishes that have piled too high. You wipe stains from cheeks and noses. You tie shoes. Untangle hair.
You laugh when someone spills flour.
You don’t sigh when someone cries.
And you don’t stare at Oswald.
Not with pity. Not with that careful, fragile look people use around the grieving.
You treat him like he’s still a person.
“Hey,” you say one afternoon, setting a plate in front of him. “You should eat too, you know.”
He blinks down at it like it’s unfamiliar technology.
“…Thank you,” he murmurs, voice rough.
You sit across from him, not forcing eye contact.
“Did you know,” you say lightly, “one of the toddlers tried to feed a sock to the dog today? Maintained eye contact the whole time. Power move.”
A pause.
“…Oh?”
“Mhm. The dog looked personally betrayed.”
His mouth twitches.
It’s tiny.
But it’s the first time in months his face moves toward something other than emptiness.
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You come back.
The next day.
And the next.
Soon the children wait for you. They run to the door at your knock. Tug your hands toward urgent problems only you can solve — a broken crayon, a scary dream, a shirt that “feels wrong.”
They climb into your lap without asking. Fall asleep against your shoulder mid-story.
The house shifts around you like a puzzle piece sliding into place.
Oswald watches.
At first from far away.
Then closer.
Then with something in his chest that scares him.
Hope.
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You talk about her like she still belongs there.
“She sounds amazing,” you tell the kids when they share stories.
“She must’ve loved you all so much.”
You don’t avoid her name.
You don’t try to step into her shadow.
You just stand beside it.
And something inside Oswald, long frozen, aches differently.
Not sharp.
Not shattering.
Just… thawing.
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One evening, a toddler trips and skins their knee.
They cry — loud, broken.
Before, Oswald might’ve frozen.
Now, he moves.
He scoops the child up, clumsy but determined, voice shaky. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
You watch from the doorway as he rocks them gently, humming — off-key, but trying.
Your chest aches.
Because that’s not a man replacing love.
That’s a man remembering how to give it again.
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That night on the porch, when he cries beside you under the moon, it’s not just grief coming out.
It’s exhaustion.
Guilt.
Fear of forgetting her laugh.
Fear of remembering it too clearly.
You stay through all of it.
And when the sobs fade, the silence between you feels different.
Not empty.
Shared.
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After that, healing doesn’t arrive like sunlight.
It arrives like morning.
Slow.
Uneven.
But real.
He eats breakfast with the kids — even if it’s just toast. He showers. He braids a little one’s hair badly and laughs when it falls apart. He sits on the floor during playtime and lets three toddlers climb him like a tree.
The older children start sleeping more.
Their shoulders relax.
You see it.
And Oswald sees you seeing it.
Gratitude sits in his chest, warm and terrifying.
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Some nights grief still knocks the wind out of him.
He’ll stand in the doorway of their old bedroom and feel the ache like day one.
But now…
Sometimes, he hears your laugh downstairs.
And it pulls him back.
Not away from her.
Back to life.
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The firefly night glows soft and gold.
Children run through the yard, cupping tiny lights in their hands. The air hums with summer.
Oswald stands beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
“I was afraid loving again would mean losing her,” he says.
You answer softly, “Love doesn’t disappear just because more of it exists.”
He looks at the sky for a long time.
“I think she’d be happy,” he whispers. “That they’re not alone. That I’m not either.”
Then he looks at you.
And his eyes are no longer empty.
They’re scared.
Hopeful.
Alive.
“I want to try,” he says. “For them. For me. For… us. If you’ll have a rabbit who’s still learning how to stand again.”
You squeeze his hand.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Behind you, 418 children laugh.
The young adults, observe with smiles on their faces.
Inside, the house breathes.
The ink stains remain.
The grief remains.
But now, woven through it like golden thread…
So does love.
And this time, Oswald doesn’t watch life from behind glass.
He steps back into it.
Author's note: I really like Oswald's character so much, from the absolute happiness to the undying despair after losing his beloved wife, I can't wait to know much more about him soon.
I hope you guys enjoyed it <3
