heimdal

Heimdal

The canal path always felt like a hush wrapped in trees. Even in late spring, even under clouds, the green hung thick and close here—ferns brushing my calves, ivy pulling gently at the fences like it wanted to tell me something. The towpath was damp but not soaked, soft earth giving a little under my boots, and the faint buzz of midges hovered just out of sight.

I could see the daycare fence ahead, painted in once-bright pastels now chipped by a dozen winters. I always liked arriving from this side—quieter, tucked into the world like a secret.

A burst of laughter drifted over the hedge. Then a shriek. Then a splash.

I smiled.

The yard was a patchwork of puddles and chalk, buckets and jars, the aftermath of serious toddler science. Tima was at the centre of it all—barefoot, as usual, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, stirring a plastic beaker of something vaguely lemon-coloured with a stick twice the length of her arm. Eira stood beside her, holding a handful of wildflowers, threading them in one by one with great ceremony.

"It's potion tea," Eira declared when she spotted me. "It turns frogs into mums."

Tima looked up and nodded sagely, as if this was well-established.

"Powerful stuff," I said, crouching beside them. "Any success yet?"

"We're waiting for lightning," Tima whispered, then added a dandelion puff like a final spell.

Behind them, a teacher laughed softly. "Colour play today. Yours have taken it to the next level."

"I expected nothing less," I said.

Tiny rain began to fall—just a dusting, like the sky hadn't quite made up its mind. I zipped Tima's coat and handed Eira her light waterproof as they loaded their pockets with a final handful of petals and leaves. Tima clutched the beaker tightly. I didn't have the heart to make her leave it behind.

We started up the canal path, heading home.

The air smelled of damp bark and nettles, the kind of rain that made the moss seem brighter. Tima pointed out a snail on a leaf; Eira tried to name it "Gerald the Slowpoke." They each held one of my hands, their feet slapping in rhythm, the wet earth making their giggles sound like something ancient and true.

By the time we reached the cottage, the drizzle had become a steady whisper, the kind that patters soft against the roof but never makes you run. Steph's car was already in the drive. I could smell the cawl before we even stepped inside—leek and lamb and thyme drifting out like a hug.

The kitchen was warm and full of sound.

Steph stood at the hob, sleeves pushed up and curls pinned back in that chaotic crown she always made look effortless. A wooden spoon in one hand, phone cradled under her chin, and the unmistakable clatter of bowls and wooden chopping boards filling the rest of the space.

"Guess who made potions," I said, ushering the girls in.

"They better not be drinking them," Steph called over her shoulder.

"No promises," Eira grinned, kicking off her damp boots.

Tima was already halfway to the hearth, where the low fire had been coaxed to a cheerful crackle. She plopped down in front of it, peeled off her coat, and unzipped the little satchel of crayons and paper that lived beside the kindling basket.

"Drawin' time," she murmured, as if to herself.

Eira joined her, and soon the floor was a sea of curls, crayons, and quiet muttering about which creature wore which crown. Hoppy (rescued from the coat pocket) was given a starring role in the background of each scene.

I sat on the floor nearby, watching them, toes warming against the flagstones. The fire spat occasionally, its warmth licking the air in gentle bursts. Tima leaned into Eira, pointing at her drawing with serious critique. Eira added a dragonfly crown in response.

"Girls," Steph said, "dinner in five."

We ate slowly, bowls cradled in our hands, bread torn into chunks and dunked without ceremony. Tima spilled some and tried to mop it up with a crayon. Eira offered her last potato piece to Hoppy. Steph looked across the table at me and smiled.

"I've packed the little bags. Yours probably needs a redo though."

"I take offence."

"You should."

After dinner, the girls curled up in front of the telly, watching Fireman Sam with eyes half-lidded and bodies heavy with warmth. Tima's head fell to Eira's shoulder. Eira didn't even blink, just reached up to pat her hair in slow, absentminded strokes.

Steph nudged me. "Let them sleep like that?"

"Yeah," I said, already grabbing a blanket.

The cottage always felt older at night. Not just quiet, but settled—like the house itself took a deep breath once the girls were asleep.

Steph and I sat on the sofa, feet tangled in the knitted throw, two mugs of peppermint tea balanced on the old trunk we used as a table. Outside, the rain had thickened a little, tapping against the windows with steady fingers.

We didn't talk much at first.

Just sat.

The kind of silence that comes after long days and deeper thoughts.

"I forget sometimes," I said eventually. "That I'm doing this. That we're doing it. Tomorrow… it's real."

Steph nodded, eyes on the fire. "You ready?"

"No," I admitted. "But yes. You know?"

She laughed softly. "No one's ever ready for these things. We just pack snacks and wing it."

I leaned my head back against the sofa. "I feel like I'm carrying a story. Not just mine. Hers too. All of it."

"You are," Steph said. "But it's okay. That's what we do. We carry the story until they can."

I looked over. She was watching the fire now, face soft in the flicker.

"I don't know how much she'll remember."

"She'll remember the feeling," she said. "Of being loved, and safe, and held. The rest comes later."

The mugs steamed quietly between us.

I could hear Tima's breathing from the other room—slow, even, the kind of deep sleep that only the tiniest bodies seem to know. Eira had her hand tucked protectively over Hoppy's leg. I couldn't quite tell who was holding who.

Steph's hand drifted over and rested on mine. Just for a second.

"We'll be here when you get back."

"I know," I said. And I did.

The rain kept falling. The fire dimmed to a slow pulse. And eventually, we drifted too—two tired grown-ups under a wool blanket, trying not to dream too loudly before the morning came.

Bore da.

The sun came in low and soft through the kitchen window, casting long strips of gold across the tiles. It made the steam from the kettle glow, rising like some quiet spirit into the beams of light. The old radiator under the sill ticked faintly as it warmed, and a faint birdsong trickled in from the hedgerow, already caught in the swell of June.

Tima sat on the floor beside the bags, legs folded beneath her like a storybook fox, nursing a slice of toast with one hand and Hoppy tucked into the crook of the other arm. She'd insisted Hoppy have his own bite, and now a buttery smear marked the hippo's snout. She didn't seem to mind.

The checklist was open on the table—lined, creased, scribbled. A highlighter sat on top like a flag in conquered territory. Socks, checked. Passports, checked. Nappies, snacks, wipes, three pairs of leggings, toothbrush, travel blanket. Eira had helped draw a little airplane beside the word important.

"Do you think Swedish buses look different?" Eira asked, picking at the corner of her cereal box.

"Maybe," I said, glancing up. "Or maybe they just drive on the wrong side and have better snacks."

She smiled at that, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

She was dressed already—her favourite yellow shirt, hair still damp from the bath last night. She stood by the kitchen counter with that look she wore when she wasn't sure how much she was allowed to feel. Tima was going, and she wasn't.

I reached over, gently tapped her arm. "You can still draw us a map, remember? So we don't get lost."

Eira nodded, solemn. "Okay. But you have to promise to follow it."

"We will," I said. "Even if it leads us to the moon."

Tima climbed up onto the bench beside me with a grunt, dragging Hoppy by one leg. She nestled against my side and held out her toast with half a smile.

"Tad, here!."

I took the bite she offered, exaggerating a chewing sound that made her giggle.

Outside, the garden stirred in the morning breeze. The foxgloves nodded slowly in the shade, and the leaves whispered something soft that only June mornings know how to say. The whole house felt like it was holding its breath—not worried, not scared, just aware that something was about to change.

Steph walked in with mugs of tea, hair tied up and keys already in her pocket. She looked at me, then at the two girls sitting in a quiet nest of toast crumbs and plush limbs.

"You packed her spare socks?"

"Three pairs."

"And the emergency fruit bars?"

I patted my chest. "Right here, close to the heart."

She smiled and set the mugs down.

"Well then," she said, voice lighter than it had any right to be. "I suppose it's time."

Tima looked up at me, then back at her hippo, then nodded once—serious, ready, full of trust.

Eira's spoon clinked in her bowl. Her eyes didn't leave the toast crumbs.

The sun kept coming in through the window, as if the world wanted to stretch this morning just a little bit longer.

And I let it. Just a little bit longer.

We walked the long way, past the bakery with the painted window and the florist that always smelled too much of carnations. The pavement was still warming from the night, and the low sun made everything look softer than usual—like someone had turned the world down a notch to let us ease into the day.

Steph walked beside me, sipping from a takeaway cup, the girls skipping ahead in uneven bursts—half-walk, half-dance, the way small children move when they haven't yet decided if the day is serious or not.

Tredegar Park was already awake.

Sparrows chattered in the trees overhead, and a lawnmower buzzed lazily in the far corner near the cricket pitch. The air smelled of cut grass and warm tarmac. The kind of scent you forget until it comes back all at once, hitting something in your chest you didn't know was waiting.

Tima and Eira ran straight for the old fountain—the one that never really worked, but still managed to collect enough rainwater and imagination to be magical. They stood on the wide stone edge, arms spread, pretending to be birds. Hoppy was perched nearby like a small, unblinking lifeguard.

"Caw!" shouted Tima, flapping dramatically.

Eira followed suit. "Caw-Caw!"

Steph laughed. "Those are the worst seagulls I've ever heard."

"They're not seagulls," Eira said. "They're memory birds."

I looked at her then—at the way she was standing, steady on the stone, chin lifted just slightly—and I knew something had settled into her already. Some understanding.

"This is your last play for a while," she said to Tima, not unkindly.

Tima looked up at her, paused, then nodded once.

"Okay," she said. Then splashed both feet into the shallow water with determined joy.

They played along the gravel path after that, collecting leaves and twigs like they were precious things. Tima held out a feather to me at one point. "For the plane," she said. "To help it fly."

I took it, placed it in my pocket like something sacred.

The benches were still cool when we sat for a moment, Steph and I. We watched the girls chase each other around a tree, sunlight painting their shadows long and fast.

She leaned against me gently. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I think so."

We didn't move right away when the play slowed and the birds went quiet. We just watched them, holding the warmth of the morning like it was something you could carry.

Maybe you can.

Maybe that's all we ever do.

The Snug always smelled like cinnamon and warm bread. The kind of place where the windows steamed even in summer, where the chairs didn't match and no one minded. We found our usual table near the front—wood chipped at the edges, a small vase of fake daffodils in the centre.

Steph ordered while I settled the girls. Eira sat facing the street, legs swinging under the table, watching the early Risca bustle. Tima climbed up beside me, still clutching Hoppy, eyes wide at the trays of scones and jam.

The server brought two plates of buttered toast, crusts cut off, just how they liked it.

Tima took one triangle and broke it carefully in half. One for her, one pressed gently into Hoppy's stitched paws.

"He hungry too," she said softly, brushing a crumb from his ear.

I nodded solemnly. "Travelling makes you starved."

Eira giggled behind her cup of apple juice. "Does he need a passport?"

"He has one," Tima replied with absolute certainty. "It's secret."

Steph returned with two mugs and a sigh, sliding into the seat across from me.

"They've got that walnut cake you like," she said, and for a second I forgot how to speak.

We sat there, the four of us, toast and tea and soft clinking sounds. The café filled with quiet conversation, spoons against cups, someone coughing near the counter. Outside, the town ticked along—buses crawling past, delivery vans double-parked, a dog tied to the bike rack barking at a pigeon that didn't care.

Tima leaned her head on my shoulder mid-chew, sticky fingers resting lightly on my sleeve.

And across the table, Steph looked at me.

Just looked.

Like she was seeing everything at once: the bags at our feet, the light on my face, the shadow of what we were about to do. Her tea sat untouched. Her eyes didn't waver.

This is real.

That's what passed between us.

Not panic. Not second-guessing. Just… the weight of it. The shape this day would leave behind.

I reached across the table and touched her hand, just once. Her thumb brushed mine, then let go.

"Better finish up," she said, voice quiet. "You've got a train to catch."

Tima sat upright and raised a crust to the sky.

"To fly-train!" she shouted.

"To fly-train," we echoed, smiling despite the ache in our chests.

And for a moment, everything held still—like even time wanted to sit with us for just a second longer.

The stop outside the old post office hadn't changed in years—the same faded timetable, the same leaning bin, the same uneven pavement that always caught your shoe if you weren't paying attention. The bus hadn't arrived yet, and for once, I was glad.

We stood there in a loose circle. Me with the strap of the bag cutting into one shoulder, Tima tucked in close under the other arm. Steph with her arms folded, holding herself like a question. And Eira, pacing a little, like she wasn't sure where her body was supposed to go.

The air had that waiting hush to it. Not quiet, exactly, but muted. A lorry passed, a gull called once overhead. Tima chewed on the ear of Hoppy and watched the road as if she might spot the bus first.

"Promise you'll bring me something weird," Eira said suddenly.

I turned to her. "Like what?"

She shrugged. "A rock shaped like a triangle. Or Swedish toothpaste."

Tima nodded solemnly. "Rock."

Eira took a small step forward and wrapped her arms tight around her cousin, nearly knocking the toast crumb out of her. Hoppy was squashed between them like a witness.

"You better be good," she whispered. "And don't eat all the sweets on the first day."

"I good," Tima replied, patting her back.

Steph was quiet. But when I looked at her, she reached out and squeezed my hand. Firm, once, like she was pouring all the unsaid things into that one brief press.

"I packed the lemon wipes," she said softly.

"I saw," I replied.

The bus rounded the corner.

Tima's body tensed against mine—not scared, just bracing. The way she always did when something big was starting. I crouched, settled the bag better across my chest, and adjusted her little rucksack with the yellow stars.

"You ready, love?"

She looked at me.

Then at the bus.

Then back at Eira, who gave her a tiny nod, the kind of nod that said everything's gonna be alright, even if it stings a bit.

Tima nodded back. "I'm ready."

We climbed aboard as the doors hissed open. The driver gave me a glance that said he'd seen a hundred goodbyes at this stop, and still wasn't used to them.

I waved from the steps. Eira was holding Steph's hand now, eyes wide but dry. Steph lifted two fingers in a wave, mouthing something I couldn't quite catch. It didn't matter.

We found a seat near the back. Tima pressed her face to the glass, fingers smudging the pane as she watched them shrink away.

And when the bus pulled off down Commercial Street, I felt it.

That soft ache.

Like something just let go, but still lived in the hand that held it.

The bus rumbled forward like an old story being retold—steady, familiar, full of little jolts. The seats were worn in that way public seats always are, and the windows were streaked from last night's rain, catching the sunlight in sideways glints.

Tima sat on my lap, her knees bouncing lightly, Hoppy nestled against her belly like a seatbelt made of comfort. She pressed her nose to the glass, breath fogging it in small bursts, then drew a wobbly circle with her fingertip.

"House!" she shouted, pointing at a row of terraced homes sliding past.

"Yep," I said. "That's someone's house."

"Blue car! Two dog!"

"Two dogs? You sure?"

She nodded fiercely. "One sit. One bark."

I laughed and kissed the top of her head. "You've got good eyes."

We curved past the old canal bridge, where ivy clung tight to the bricks like the years hadn't passed at all. On the right, the Ebbw River glinted through gaps in the trees, brown and fast today, swollen from yesterday's storm.

"Water," she murmured, quieter now, her finger tracing its bend.

"Yep. That's the river, cariad. That's where ducks go to do their secret business."

She giggled, that high hiccup-laugh she only did when something caught her just right.

As we rolled through Crosskeys and out toward Rogerstone, she kept her commentary coming—half-whispers, half-declarations.

"Tree!"

"Crane!"

"Big bin!"

Every object was a discovery. Every graffitied underpass an ancient ruin. She pointed at one that read LOZ + EM 4EVER, the paint dripping slightly in pink.

"Love," she said.

"Yeah," I smiled. "That's someone's love, written big so they don't forget."

She seemed to think about that, then leaned back into me, her small hand clutching Hoppy's tail like a lifeline. The hum of the road filled the silence between her words, and I matched my breath to hers, slow and sure.

I watched the city inch closer through the window—flats growing taller, streets busier, signs bigger. Newport just ahead, and a whole adventure after that.

But for now, this moment. The river, the graffiti, the names of things as told by a little girl on her way to somewhere new.

The world had never looked more alive.

Newport always felt like a pause between chapters—big enough to feel like a city, quiet enough to still hear your own thoughts. We stepped off the bus into the hum of late morning. Traffic rolled steadily down the hill. The market was half-busy, the air full of fried onions and something sweet baking nearby.

Tima held my hand and walked with that odd toddler mix of purpose and drift—swinging Hoppy by one arm, stopping every few feet to examine a crack in the pavement or a gum mark shaped like a cloud.

"Look," she said, crouching to poke at a dandelion bursting through the curb.

"I see it," I replied. "Urban flower power."

She grinned, then darted ahead toward the riverwalk.

The River Usk flowed wide and brown and lazy beside us, dragging bits of yesterday's leaves in looping circles. We reached the railings near the old footbridge by the theatre. A few gulls squabbled on the far bank. I lifted her up so she could see properly.

"Big river," she whispered.

"Yep," I said. "One of the big ones."

She rummaged in her pocket and produced a pebble—probably stowed from Tredegar Park earlier. She held it for a moment like it meant something, then tossed it underarm into the water.

It plunked in with barely a splash.

"Made a wish," she said, serious.

I blinked. "You did?"

She nodded, eyes not leaving the ripples. "Wish for cake."

"Truly noble."

She giggled and turned around just in time for a pigeon to burst from a nearby bench. It flapped up into the air with a racket of wings and startled feathers.

Tima gasped.

Then she shrieked with laughter, stumbling backward into my legs and pointing.

"FLAPPY!"

"It was very flappy."

"Too flappy!"

Her joy spilled out like sunlight. I knelt down and kissed her on the cheek, warm and sticky from banana.

She wriggled in my arms, then pointed at the theatre sign. "What that?"

"That's where people play pretend and wear silly hats and say things loudly."

She considered that. "Like telly?"

"Exactly. But louder."

She nodded as if something important had just clicked into place.

We stood there a little longer. The river moved on, the city moved around us, and the wind picked up just enough to ruffle the edge of her coat.

"Time soon?" she asked.

"Soon," I said. "But not just yet."

She held my finger tighter.

And we stayed, just long enough for the world to become simple again.

The coach stop outside the theatre wasn't much—just a stretch of pavement with a metal bench and a sign that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since before Tima was born. A faded map flapped in the breeze behind cloudy plastic, and someone had left half a sandwich on the seat.

We were early. Of course we were.

Tima stood with one foot on my boot and the other spinning in small, slow circles on the concrete, Hoppy tucked under one arm like a well-travelled diplomat.

"Where's our rocket bus?" she asked, looking up with those big, serious eyes.

"Maybe it's invisible," I said. "Only appears if you hop on one leg and shout the secret password."

"What's the password?"

"Hmm." I leaned in close, cupping her ear. "Bananapants."

She squealed with laughter and repeated it at full volume: "BANANAPANTS!!"

An older man in a flat cap turned from his newspaper with a grin. A girl with purple hair waiting with a suitcase gave us a thumbs-up. Tima beamed like she was powering the city.

We wandered up and down the short stretch of pavement. She counted the suitcases: "One, two, three, purple one!" Then the pigeons: "One, two, running away!"

More people arrived—teenagers with headphones, a woman humming to herself with a crochet bag, a family juggling snacks and a stroller. Everyone looking in different directions, but with the same clock ticking behind their eyes.

I crouched next to her and pointed at a far-off speck on the road. "That one maybe?"

She squinted. "Too tiny."

"You're right. That's probably just a regular cow disguised as a bus."

She leaned against me, serious again. "Our bus go to the sky?"

"Not quite. But close. First it takes us to London. Then the sky bus."

She looked impressed. "Two buses?"

"Two buses, one hippo, many snacks."

We sat on the edge of the bench together. I checked the ticket again, even though I knew the time. Tima hummed softly and kicked her heels against my shins in rhythm. Her hand found mine and didn't let go.

The wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, I heard the low growl of a large engine, steady and sure.

"Think I hear it," I said.

She sat up straighter. "Rocket bus?"

"Let's find out."

And we both leaned forward into the sound.

The National Express pulled in like a long, white whale—sleek, humming, half-asleep. The doors hissed open and a few sleepy-eyed passengers stepped off. We queued with the others, ticket in hand, Tima bouncing lightly at the end of my arm like a kite waiting to lift.

"Rocket bus," she whispered.

"That's the one," I said.

We climbed the steps together, the driver scanning our paper with barely a glance. I slung our bag into the overhead and settled us into two seats near the middle. Tima immediately clambered onto her knees and pressed her face to the window.

The coach gave a soft shudder, a sigh, and then we were moving.

"Bye river," Tima said, waving. "Bye birds."

The city blurred past in shopfronts and bus stops. The wheels hummed, a kind of gentle lull that made conversation feel like it should be whispered. We passed under the first railway bridge and she gasped like we'd entered a secret cave.

"Bridge!" she said, "Hold on!"

She gripped Hoppy tightly and ducked her head. When we emerged into light again, she let out a delighted breath. "We made it."

I laughed and opened the snack pouch. "Emergency raisins?"

"Yup."

She munched thoughtfully, offering one to Hoppy, who declined, as usual. I leaned back and let the motion carry us.

Out of Newport, the road opened. Fields rolled on either side, dotted with sheep and the occasional lopsided barn. Tima pointed at clouds and told me which animals they looked like.

"That's a hippo. That's a chair. That's a hippo on a chair."

"Very rare sighting," I said. "Cloud furniture is all the rage."

We dipped into a tunnel and the light turned golden behind the tinted windows. Tima whispered something to herself—half a tune, half a list of made-up words—and then turned suddenly serious.

"I need change," she said, brows drawn together like this was a mission-critical moment.

"Okay, love," I whispered, already unbuckling her. "Let's go on a nappy expedition."

We waddled down the narrow aisle like two tired adventurers in a shared sleeping bag, bumping elbows and apologising to the seats as we passed. The toilet door opened with a soft hiss, and the familiar whiff of antiseptic and trapped air met us like an unwelcome old friend.

Tima froze at the threshold.

"It's tiny," she announced.

"Yep," I said. "Travel toilet. For secret missions only."

She looked sceptical, then nodded once and clutched tighter to Hoppy. I laid her down on the little pull-down shelf, balancing one knee awkwardly against the wall, trying not to knock anything into the bin. She stared up at the ceiling the whole time, murmuring to Hoppy in what I could only assume was Hippoese.

"Almost done," I said, fumbling with the wipes and trying not to drop the nappy bag on my foot.

"I smell airplane," she said.

"You smell hand soap."

Back in our seats, she settled in again—legs tucked under her, Hoppy draped across her knees. She chewed the last of her raisins slowly, each one examined like a relic. The coach curved gently to the left, and through the window a plane drifted far above us, silver and slow.

Tima pointed.

"That one ours?"

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe it's racing us."

She considered this. "We win."

I smiled, brushing a crumb from her cheek.

"We always do."

"That one ours?"

"Maybe," I said. "But we've got time."

She nodded, content, and laid her head on my arm.

The coach rolled on, steady as a lullaby, and I closed my eyes for a moment.

Outside, the fields kept drifting. Inside, her hand stayed curled in mine, warm and sure.

By the time we passed Swindon, Tima had curled up on the seat, legs tucked beneath her like a cat, cheek pressed against Hoppy's soft belly. One arm was flung over her face, the other still holding a squashed raisin packet she refused to let go of.

I shifted slightly, careful not to jostle her, and reached into the side pocket of the rucksack. My sketchpad came out with that soft, papery sound of something well-used—edges bent, smudges from long-ago coffees. I flipped past half-finished doodles, maps, the corner of a grocery list.

Found a blank page.

I started with the curve of her back, the way her jumper gathered near the hem, the rise and fall of her breath against the window. Hoppy was nestled beside her, eyes crooked from being loved a bit too fiercely, one ear half-folded. I drew that too. His lopsided dignity.

The engine hummed beneath us like a memory still being written.

I don't know what made me think of it—maybe the light, or the softness of the road—but suddenly I was eight again, legs barely reaching the floor, sitting beside my mum on the long ride to see Nain in Manchester. I remembered the boiled sweets she'd carry, wrapped in wax paper, each one unwrapped like a ceremony.

"Count the sheep," she'd whisper. "They'll carry you forward."

I remembered the way her arm would cradle me when I dozed, the quiet click of her knitting needles when she thought I wasn't listening. I remembered the way she'd always bring too much—blankets, puzzles, tissues, more snacks than strictly legal.

The same way I do now.

I paused in my sketching, looked down at Tima—this tiny, tangled shape asleep beside me, her mouth slightly open, breath slow and steady.

She had no idea how much she was carrying. Not yet.

Just like I hadn't.

That thought made my chest tighten, not with grief, but with the strange weight of love—the kind that lives across years and generations, silent but solid, passed down through raisins and bus windows and too many spare socks.

I finished the sketch, added a small heart on Hoppy's belly, and wrote the date in the bottom corner.

Then I closed the pad and just watched her sleep, the road unwinding ahead like ribbon.

London was drawing closer now.

But for this moment, we were still somewhere in between—held in the rhythm of the wheels, in the breath of memory, and the hush of a little girl dreaming beside a hippo.

The coach sighed to a halt at London Victoria, brakes hissing like steam escaping from a kettle too full. The doors opened and the morning city poured in—horns, shouting, suitcase wheels, a thousand shoes moving in a thousand directions.

Tima blinked awake against my chest, confused, flushed, Hoppy caught between us like an extra limb.

"We here?" she mumbled, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand.

"We're here," I said softly. "Big city now."

We stepped off the coach into the hum. People pushed past with bags and rucksacks, coats flapping like wings, phones pressed to ears. The ground vibrated slightly with trains underneath, and the ceiling of the station stretched up like a cathedral made of movement.

Tima's fingers dug into my coat. She didn't speak. Just clutched Hoppy tighter, his stuffing now permanently rearranged from the pressure.

I crouched on the edge of the concourse and fished into the snack pouch.

"Banana," I said, peeling it halfway. "For brave explorers."

She took it without a word, her other hand still locked around Hoppy. Each bite came slowly, her eyes tracking every motion around us like a deer in a meadow full of unfamiliar rustles.

I pulled her into my lap, arms wrapped loosely around her, letting her watch from that safe circle. I whispered a list to ground her—"Red bag. Tall man. Blue shoes. Dog. Pigeon. Two pigeons now." She nodded along, banana bite by bite.

"Too big," she whispered finally.

"Just for now," I said. "We'll find our quiet soon."

And we sat like that—still in the chaos—until the world softened just enough to breathe again.

From the station, we took the side streets toward St James's Park, the city narrowing and widening in waves. I carried her most of the way, her arms loose around my neck now, Hoppy slung over my shoulder like a strange diplomatic satchel.

The sky was clear, the light sharp—cutting across old stone and through iron fences like a postcard come to life.

The park opened like a sigh.

We followed the curve of the lake, passing joggers and tourists, pigeons pecking in perfect rhythm. Tima stirred against me, eyes adjusting to the quiet, the rhythm of leaves instead of engines.

Then I saw her.

Monika—her other Nain—standing near the bench beneath the willow tree. Hair neat, jacket sharp, her eyes already scanning the path. She looked like she wasn't sure whether to smile or brace.

Tima raised her head and looked.

"That Nain?" she asked, not sure.

"Yes, love," I said. "That's your Nain."

We approached slowly, steps falling into some rhythm I couldn't name. Monika stepped forward and knelt, not speaking yet. Just watching Tima with a softness I hadn't seen in a long time.

Tima studied her for a moment, then placed Hoppy gently in Monika's lap like an offering.

Monika blinked, then smiled.

"Hello, darling," she said. "What a fine hippo you have."

Tima didn't say anything. Just nodded once.

Then Monika stood and looked at me.

And did something she never really did.

She hugged me.

No words, no polite squeeze. Just a real, full hug.

And I stood there, stiff at first—then folding into it, something giving way. My throat burned, and I blinked hard, once, twice.

She didn't let go right away.

When she did, she placed her hand gently on my cheek and said, "You've done well."

And I couldn't speak. Only nodded, holding everything in that breath.

We sat by the lake a while after that, ducks drifting past, the city muffled behind the leaves.

Tima leaned against Monika's side, quiet and watchful.

And for the first time in years, it felt like a circle had started to close.

Monika adjusted her scarf, brushing a leaf from the bench between us. "She's taller."

"Just a little," I said.

"She speaks more now. Has a way of looking at things."

"She sees everything."

Monika smiled faintly. "Like her mother."

That part always made my throat catch, still. I glanced at her, unsure if we were stepping into memory or just passing by.

"She remembers you," I said.

"She'd better," Monika replied, teasing just enough. "Though I wouldn't blame her if she'd forgotten my voice. Half a year... it's too long."

I nodded. "It wasn't meant to be."

"No. But life's not always meant."

She took Tima's hand gently in hers and traced a thumb across the soft curve of her knuckles. Tima didn't flinch or pull away. Just watched a goose glide past with the stillness only toddlers seem to possess when they're at peace.

"You know," Monika said, her voice quieter now, "I never blamed you. Not really. There were moments... of course. Moments when I didn't understand. Still don't. But I never hated you. I just—didn't know how to be near it. Any of it."

I nodded again, slower this time. "I didn't know how to bring her either. Until now."

She let out a soft breath. "You did right."

We sat with that.

"I keep thinking how much her mum would've loved this," I said. "Tima in a sun hat, feeding pigeons like they're ancient gods."

"She would've," Monika murmured. "Though she'd have cursed about the pigeons."

"She always did."

We both laughed—low, unsure, but real.

Tima reached up and placed Hoppy on Monika's lap, ceremoniously.

"For you to look after," she said.

Monika blinked.

"Well," she whispered, "that's an honour."

I passed her a small photo from my coat pocket. One from last month—Tima asleep in the garden, hat crooked, mouth open mid-dream.

"For your fridge," I said.

She took it, and for a long moment, said nothing. Just pressed it flat against her chest.

"She's magic," Monika finally said.

"She is."

We sat until the bells of noon echoed over the rooftops, the breeze picking up faint smells of popcorn and traffic. Tima laid back on the bench and watched the clouds.

Monika stood and brushed off her coat. "Right," she said. "You two need to get across the river before the city eats you whole."

I smiled. "Not if Hoppy gets there first."

She offered me her arm in that strange, formal way she sometimes did when emotion got too close. I took it anyway.

And we walked slowly toward the gate, the three of us—almost like it was any other day.

Almost.

The apartment in Woolwich hadn't changed much—not in its bones. Same creaky stairwell with the blue carpet frayed at the edges, same stubborn hallway light that flickered once before deciding to work. The door still stuck slightly at the hinge, and the air inside smelled exactly like it always had—lavender soap, clean floor polish, and warm Polish rye bread cooling on the counter.

Tima paused at the doorway like she was entering something sacred.

Monika ushered us in with the lightness of someone who'd spent the last hour building courage to do so. Her coat was already on the hook before I'd even unzipped mine. Tima slipped off her shoes slowly, placing them side by side next to a pair of old house slippers.

The living room was washed in late sun, curtains half-drawn. A fan hummed gently in the corner. The same crocheted blanket draped over the arm of the sofa. The same porcelain swans on the shelf.

And the photos. Everywhere. Dozens of them. On the walls, across the sideboard, tucked into frames on top of the bookcase—snapshots of a whole lifetime, frozen smiles and weddings, birthdays, beaches, sepia-toned summers. I saw her there—Tima's mum—at fourteen, at seventeen in a photo from the forest just weeks before she gave birth. Holding her bump. Eyes uncertain, glowing.

Tima walked straight to the wall of frames without hesitation, dragging Hoppy along by the tail. She scanned the photos with the focus of a detective. Then she pointed, tiny finger outstretched.

"Oooh," she said, almost a gasp. "This is my favourite of Mama."

Monika turned sharply. "That one?"

It was a photo I hadn't seen in years—her mum, age sixteen maybe, in a sunflower field, arms stretched wide, caught mid-laugh. Hair wild, eyes closed. A summer dress and sky above her.

"Yes," Tima said, pressing her cheek to the frame. "She looks like a song."

Monika's hand flew to her mouth. She didn't cry, not exactly—but she looked as though her chest had been opened for a second too long, and the wind had gotten in.

I knelt beside Tima, placing my hand on her back.

"She picked that one," I said quietly. "No prompting."

Monika just nodded. "She looks like a song."

In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off.

"Let's have tea," Monika said, her voice steadying. "And I've got apple cake from the Polish shop. She always loved that."

Tima was already halfway to the table, Hoppy seated on a dining chair like royalty.

And just like that, the space became shared again—not perfect, not repaired, but gently rethreaded.

Like music finding its way back into a room.

He came in through the back hallway—keys still jingling in his hand, the scent of the bakery he'd just left clinging to his coat. Monika met him in the doorway with a glance and a murmured word I couldn't hear.

Tima looked up from her tea, biscuit halfway to her mouth. Her eyes followed the sound, cautious but curious.

"Taid's home," Monika said gently.

He stepped into the kitchen, slower than usual, his work shoes leaving faint scuffs on the linoleum. His eyes met mine—warm, quiet, saying a hundred things he wouldn't speak aloud.

Then he crouched beside the table.

"I remember you," he said softly to Tima, his accent faint, weathered. "But you were very small."

"I'm big now," she replied, brushing crumbs from her jumper.

He smiled. "Yes. You are."

From behind his back, he pulled a small bundle wrapped in a cloth. He unfolded it carefully, like it might crumble. Inside was a soft, well-worn plush rabbit—greyed with time, one ear floppier than the other, a tiny patch sewn over one leg in mismatched green fabric.

"This," he said, holding it out with both hands, "was your mama's. She called him Patchy."

Tima's face shifted—something between awe and reverence. She reached out slowly, took the rabbit gently, then held him up beside Hoppy for inspection.

"Hello, Patchy," she whispered.

She held both toys up. "This one's Hoppy. He's good at cwtsh. Patchy can come too."

He sat back on his heels and watched her arrange the toys on the chair beside her. No rush. No pushing. Just presence.

"She kept him in the bed until she was nine," he said to me, a faint smile tracing the edge of his mouth. "Even snuck him to school once in her backpack."

Tima looked up. "Mama was funny."

"Very," he said. "And brave."

She placed Patchy gently between them on the table, like he'd been invited to tea. Hoppy nodded in agreement, floppy ear and all.

The moment passed like soft light shifting across the floor—no ceremony, no grand gestures. Just the rabbit, and the girl, and the man who had waited quietly to give something that mattered.

Tima looked up at him once more. "You can sit next to us now."

He did.

And they drank their tea together.

The room still carried her—her mother, I mean.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Just the particular way the light hit the pale green curtains, the faint smell of chamomile and old wood in the air, the poster of a Welsh coastline still curling slightly at the corners from where it had been taped up years ago. Her childhood room, repurposed but not erased.

Tima stood in the middle of the floor, bouncing gently on the mattress, a streak of toothpaste still on her chin.

"This was Mama's bed?" she asked, landing with a final plop.

"It was," I said. "She used to read all night under the covers with a torch."

Tima considered this. "Was she allowed?"

"Probably not," I smiled.

She laughed and rolled across the blanket like it was made of clouds. Hoppy and Patchy were already side by side on the pillow, patiently awaiting their instructions.

"Time for nappy and story," I said.

She flopped dramatically. "Only if it's from the big book."

"The big book it is."

I changed her nappy on the blanket, the way we always did when travel made routines bend and beds weren't ours. She pointed out every animal on the clean one. "Fox. Sheep. Sheep again."

Once she was settled under the covers—her head half-lost beneath the pillows—I pulled the book from my bag: Songs and Sayings of Gwent and Glyndŵr. Thick, a little battered at the spine, cloth-bound with gold lettering faded like a sunset.

She held her breath as I opened it.

"Tonight," I said, flipping slowly, "we'll read about the girl who learned to speak with owls."

She blinked slowly. "Why owls?"

"Because they never lie. And they always ask the best questions."

Her eyes grew heavier as I read. The rhythm of the old language carried through the words like wind through trees—half poetry, half lullaby. Somewhere near the end, her hand reached blindly across the pillow and found both Hoppy and Patchy. She tucked them close, her breathing slowing.

"Papa?" she murmured, not fully awake.

"Yes, cariad?"

"Is Mama sleeping too?"

"Yes," I whispered. "And you're right beside her."

A breath, then silence.

She fell asleep with both arms around her guardians, one old, one new. Her hair stuck to her forehead, one foot half out of the blanket, her entire body softened into the night.

I stayed a little longer.

Then I moved to the small desk by the window—the same desk her mother once used for homework, drawing, writing letters she never sent.

I opened the journal and wrote, slowly, careful not to let the pen scrape too loud:

Tonight, she sleeps in her mother's bed.

With her mother's rabbit.

And the whole weight of a line unbroken.

I don't know what she'll remember.

But I'll remember this.

A soft bed. Two soft toys.

And her breath, steady.

We made it here.

And something in the world feels still.

I closed the book and sat with it.

Outside, the lights of Woolwich flickered in their quiet geometry.

Inside, the past and present lay curled together on a single pillow—no longer strangers.

We left the flat early, the sky still holding onto its grey like a child refusing to wake. The pavements were damp from a light rain that must have come and gone before we'd even stirred. The air was cool but not cold, a hush to it—like the city was still somewhere between sleep and speech.

We walked slowly, Tima tucked into her pram, Hoppy and Patchy strapped in beside her like dignitaries. She hummed something to herself, a cross between the owl song from last night and her usual morning tune about toast.

At the corner café overlooking the Thames, we sat near the window. The place was still stretching into its day—mugs clinking, milk steaming, a radio low in the background murmuring the weather for towns we wouldn't visit.

Monika ordered croissant and tea. I got Tima her toast triangles—slightly burnt at the edges the way she liked them—with just a brush of marmalade. A soft-boiled egg came in a little ceramic chicken, which made her gasp like she'd discovered treasure.

"He's got a hat!" she announced, pointing at the egg's shell top.

We peeled it carefully, Tima dipping toast soldiers into the yolk with solemn concentration. She offered the last piece to Hoppy, then to Patchy, then finally to Monika.

"For your belly," she said.

Monika ate it without flinching. "Perfect," she replied. "Just like her mother used to make me."

I didn't say anything, just wrapped my fingers tighter around the tea cup. The warmth felt steadying. Everything else was starting to blur at the edges.

Out beyond the glass, boats moved quietly along the river—brown water folding and unfolding in soft curls. Tima tracked each one like they were characters in a story only she could hear.

"That one's going to the moon," she said, pointing to a barge with a red tarp.

"And that one?" I asked.

"To find Nana's shoes," she said simply. "She forgot them."

Monika didn't look away from the boats. "Maybe they'll bring her back something else instead."

Tima nodded slowly. "Like a flower."

The table grew quiet.

Somewhere far off, bells began to ring from a riverside church.

I checked the time.

It was nearly time to go.

The coach pulled away from Victoria with a soft hydraulic sigh, merging into the London morning like a slow thought. Tima leaned against the window, her fingers tracing little circles in the condensation, drawing shapes only she could name. Patchy and Hoppy were strapped into her lap, blanketed beneath her jacket like co-conspirators on a secret mission.

Outside, the world moved in washed-out greys—wet pavement, steel sky, the blurred shape of traffic lights melting into each other. Everything looked like it had been painted in watercolour and left out in the rain.

Tima squinted through the glass, then turned toward me with that look—the one that comes just before a question she's been holding in her chest for minutes.

"Papa," she said softly, "do clouds cry?"

I looked at her for a moment. Her hair was already tousled, eyes too big for her small face, cheeks warm from the bus heater. She looked like something ancient and new all at once.

"Sometimes," I said. "When they've held too much for too long."

She nodded, as if this made perfect sense.

"But not all the time?" she asked.

"No," I smiled. "Sometimes they just float."

She leaned her head on my arm then, quietly absorbing the road's rhythm.

The coach curved onto the motorway, the sound of tyres over wet asphalt a lullaby of sorts. Somewhere near the back, someone was rustling through a sandwich bag. A woman coughed into her sleeve. The driver hummed to himself, barely audible under the steady pulse of the engine.

Tima's breath slowed. She wasn't asleep, but close—suspended in that childlike drift between waking and dreaming. She held Patchy up to the window so he could see too.

"He's never flown before," she whispered.

"Then today's a big day," I said.

She turned back to the glass and began murmuring something—words without structure, more song than sentence.

"Are you singing?" I asked.

"No," she replied with a mischievous smile. "I'm cloud-talking."

"Well," I said, "tell them thank you."

"For what?"

"For not crying too much."

She considered that. "Okay."

The rest of the ride passed in that hush—motorway signs flicking by like thoughts we couldn't quite catch, the city giving way to open skies and the long, sloping concrete of terminals and towers.

As we pulled into Heathrow, the mist outside grew just a little heavier, clinging to the glass like it didn't want to let go.

And neither did I.

We stepped off the coach and into the deep, humming belly of Heathrow—arrivals and departures blinking like stars across the boards above us. People moved in waves, luggage wheels clattering like distant hooves, the murmur of languages folding into each other.

Tima gripped my hand tighter as we crossed into the terminal, her backpack bobbing with each step. Hoppy peeked out the top, his ears flopped sideways like he wasn't quite awake.

"Are we flying now?" she asked.

"Not yet," I said. "First we do the airport maze."

"I like mazes," she said, instantly more confident.

Monika and her husband walked with us as far as the first set of barriers, the goodbye forming around us without being spoken. Tima handed them a folded piece of paper she'd drawn on during the ride—a large blue plane, two very wonky stick figures, and a sun with sunglasses.

"This is you," she said to Monika, pointing to the taller stick figure. "And this is you, Taid," to the one with triangle ears. "And this is your aeroplane house."

They folded it carefully and promised to put it on the fridge.

Then came hugs—tight, short, lingering too long to be casual but just brief enough not to break anything.

"Fly safe," Monika said, brushing hair from Tima's face.

"I'm the pilot," Tima whispered.

"I never doubted it."

And with that, we moved toward the long security line.

It snaked like a lazy river through silver barriers, a choreography of shoes being untied, laptops revealed, trays stacked and nudged forward. Tima watched everything with wide eyes.

"Why are people taking off their feet?" she asked.

"Just their shoes," I said. "It's a weird rule."

A young officer checked our boarding passes. He paused at mine.

"'Super-Eric'?" he said, raising one eyebrow. "Is that… really your name?"

"Legally, unfortunately.. yes," I said. "emotionally? Absolutely."

He chuckled and waved us through.

At the scanner belt, Tima placed Hoppy in the tray with great ceremony.

"Be brave," she whispered.

The officer smiled down at her. "Your friend's going through the X-ray now."

"He's not just a hippo," I said, leaning in. "He's a high-ranking agent of the Intercontinental Plush Protection League."

The officer nodded solemnly. "Then he knows the drill."

Tima watched him disappear into the scanner. "Will they see his bones?"

"No," I said. "Just his superpowers."

Hoppy emerged unscathed, reunited with his handler. Tima hugged him as if he'd survived a harrowing ordeal. She placed him on her shoulder, whispering updates and secret codes into his soft fabric ear.

I pulled our tray off the belt and repacked our things—passport, tablet, small snacks, the wrinkled boarding pass with a juice stain on it. I'd done this a hundred times before, but never quite like this. Not with her.

The airport roared around us, but in that moment, it was just me, Tima, Hoppy, and the strange magic of moving through thresholds.

We found a wide window overlooking the tarmac, our gate still blinking orange on the board. Outside, the planes lined up like great resting birds, tails painted in colours of countries we hadn't yet dreamed of.

Tima pressed her palms to the glass, leaving small prints. "That one's going to the jungle," she said, pointing to a blue and white jet rolling slowly past.

"And that one?" I asked.

"To... cloud school."

"Of course."

We sat for a while, just watching. Planes taxied and turned, vehicles buzzed below with yellow lights spinning. Somewhere in the distance, a jet took off with a roar that made the windows hum.

Then, as if drawn by invisible string, Tima turned and tugged me toward the small children's area tucked by the café wall. There was a soft play rug, a few plastic building blocks, and a faded bookshelf filled with picture books in six different languages. She plopped onto the mat and began building something with red and yellow blocks.

"This is our plane," she announced. "But it has a chimney and wings and also it makes pancakes."

"Top-tier engineering," I said.

She giggled and held out a block for Hoppy to add. "Your turn."

She giggled and held out a block for Hoppy to add. "Your turn."

A few minutes passed—light and laughter and pretend instructions in Hippo-ese—before the first boarding call echoed overhead. Our flight number. Our gate. Final preparations.

And just like that, the shift.

Tima froze, block still in hand. Her eyes met mine and began to well, not all at once—but slow and unsure, like a tide turning without warning.

"I don't want the plane now," she whispered.

"Okay," I said, kneeling beside her. "We don't have to rush."

She shook her head, lower lip trembling. "What if it goes too fast?"

I wrapped her in my arms. "Then I'll be with you the whole time. Just like always."

"But what if the clouds cry?"

I looked down at Hoppy, nestled under her arm. "Then Hoppy will hold your hand, and I'll hold yours. We'll make a team out of it."

Tima wiped her face with her sleeve. "But he's scared too."

"Then I'll hold him too," I smiled, "and you can hold me."

She nodded slowly, still unsure but listening. I took her little hand and placed it on my chest.

"Feel that?"

"Your heart Tad.. galon?" she said, sniffling.

"Yep. That's my love. It's still here. It's not going anywhere—not even on a plane."

She held her breath, eyes wide, then finally let out a sigh. "Okay," she said, standing up. "But I carry Hoppy."

"Deal."

We gathered our things—backpack zipped, bunny secured, boarding passes checked again—and made our way to the gate.

Her hand never left mine, even when the queue slowed, even when the final beep of the scanner welcomed us forward.

There, in the tunnel of light and metal, she looked back just once—toward the glass, toward the clouds, toward something neither of us could name.

Then forward again.

The plane rumbled beneath us like a distant drum, the sort you feel more in your bones than your ears. We were strapped in near the wing, rows humming with seatbelt clicks and plastic crinkle sounds. The engine whirred louder, higher, sharper.

Tima sat straight in her seat, stiff but holding firm, Hoppy clutched to her chest like a knight's shield. I leaned close so she could hear me over the gathering thunder of takeoff.

"You okay, cariad?"

She nodded quickly, eyes huge. "It's... loud."

"Like a big growly tummy," I offered.

She giggled just once before the wheels pulled from the ground.

That first moment—the tilt, the shift, the seat pressing back—she gasped. Her whole face opened wide, like the sky had jumped inside her chest.

"Papa!"

"I'm here."

She looked out the window just as the clouds parted—rooftops shrinking, lights blinking in the dark like fireflies scattered across a map. Somewhere below, the Thames curved like a soft silver ribbon through the city's frame.

Then she saw them.

"Stars!" she shouted, pressing her hands to the window. "Papa, stars! We found them!"

I smiled, brushing hair from her forehead. "We're flying east," I said. "Toward the morning."

She watched the sky with breathless joy, forehead resting against the glass. The wing lit up as the cabin lights dimmed, city glow fading behind us. The stars—those few brave ones peeking through the thin cloud—seemed to nod in greeting.

Hoppy was placed in her lap now, facing the window too.

"He's never seen stars up here," she whispered. "Only from grass."

"Well," I said, "not everyone gets to meet the sky like this."

She turned to me, face lit with something beyond excitement—something weightless, like relief, or trust that had been tested and held.

"I think we're in a bedtime story now," she whispered.

I nodded. "The best kind."

Outside, the horizon stretched into something just shy of dawn, and the world below slipped further away—not forgotten, but gently folded.

We were in motion.

Somewhere between the hush of the seatbelt sign switching off and the stewardess offering juice, Tima curled against me like a cat in a sunbeam.

Her breathing slowed—steady, rhythmic, one hand around my thumb, the other draped over Hoppy's belly. She'd stayed awake longer than I expected, watching stars, naming lights, asking if clouds had names too. But now, her body had gone weightless in a different way. Sleep had taken her gently.

I adjusted the blanket over her legs, careful not to wake her. Outside, the night stretched wide—no real edges, just softness, as if the world was wrapped in a pale scarf.

Somewhere below us, maybe Denmark. Maybe the edge of the Baltic Sea.

I reached for the small journal in the seat pocket and turned to a fresh page. The pen felt smooth, steady. My hand didn't shake like it used to.

She trusted the sky today.

That still feels like a miracle.

There was a time when she wouldn't even trust a lift, or a hill too steep, or the night if it crept in too quickly. And now she's asleep, thousands of feet above the world, wrapped in a blanket with stars behind her and nothing but my arms and this plane keeping her safe.

I remember my first few flights.

With Mum.

The excitement in her voice when we boarded. The way she whispered "we're flying now" like it was a secret between us and the sky. She'd point out things below, guessing their names. Sometimes she was right. Sometimes she wasn't, and didn't care.

She used to tell me clouds were the soft wool of invisible sheep.

That came back to me tonight. Like a voice stored in the vapour.

Tima stirred in her sleep, murmured something incomprehensible, and sighed.

I don't know what she'll remember from this.

Maybe the egg in the chicken cup.

Maybe the red plane going to the jungle.

Maybe the way Monika held her hand at the window.

But I'll remember this.

Her breathing.

Her warmth.

Her weight in my arms.

And the stars we flew into, without fear.

I looked down at her again. A curl of hair had stuck to her cheek. Her mouth was slightly open, soft and dream-heavy. Patchy's ear was trapped under her elbow.

The sky outside hadn't changed.

Still endless.

Still holding us.

The voice over the speaker was quiet, almost apologetic.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll shortly begin our descent into Stockholm Arlanda. Local time is just past 8 a.m., and the temperature is… chilly."

The plane adjusted course with a long exhale of pressure. Lights brightened slightly. The sky outside was no longer night, but not yet day either—a pale silver stretched over the horizon, hinting at blue. Sweden waited below in mist and treetops.

Tima stirred in my arms. Her eyelashes fluttered against my shirt, then her hand reached out blindly toward the window.

I gently shifted her, and she sat up, still half-asleep, rubbing one eye. Her forehead pressed to the glass, warm breath fogging a small patch.

The landscape emerged in pieces—dense forest, little pockets of lake, sleepy hangars and stretches of road that looked like scribbles on green parchment.

She yawned without sound, cheeks flushed from sleep.

"Where is it?" she whispered.

"Here," I said, brushing her hair back. "Sweden, cariad."

She didn't answer at first, just watched. Then, as the wheels lowered with a hum and the engines adjusted tone, she placed her hand on the window. Small. Steady. Quietly claiming it.

"I see trees," she said.

"Always a good sign," I smiled.

The plane touched down with the gentlest of bumps, like a long exhale finally finding ground.

She looked up at me.

"It didn't fall."

"Nope," I said. "Held us the whole way."

She nodded like she'd never expected otherwise. And then, just like that, she reached for Hoppy, tucked under her leg, and whispered, "We made it, Agent."

The taxi to the gate took longer than expected, the plane weaving slowly past early-morning crews and blinking amber lights. Tima hummed something low, a melody I didn't recognise, but one I knew she'd hum again someday.

As the doors opened and people began to stand, she stayed seated beside me, both hands resting in my lap.

"Are we home?" she asked.

"Not quite," I said, "but almost."

She smiled, as if that was more than enough.

We came through the last set of doors, fluorescent lights giving way to the wide glass glow of the arrivals hall. The kind of place where hours are lost and hearts found. People lined the railings with paper signs and phones raised, but we weren't looking for cardboard.

We were looking for her.

Tima tugged at my hand, blinking at the sudden openness of the room. Her little suitcase bounced behind us, one wheel a bit sticky from airport grit. She looked up at me and whispered, "Do we shout now?"

"No," I said softly. "We look."

And then there she was.

Nain stood just past the barrier, short grey hair tucked beneath a dark green beret, both hands wrapped around the strap of her handbag like it was keeping her still. Her eyes found mine immediately. They didn't widen. They didn't blink.

They just… held.

I hadn't seen her in over half a year. Letters, a few calls. But not this. Not the weight of her eyes in the real. Not since before the worst of it. Not since after everything changed.

Tima slowed when she spotted her. She didn't run forward like in books or films. She simply stood by my leg, half-hiding, half-curious.

I crouched beside her.

"This is Nain," I said. "Your Nain."

Tima looked again. "She's little."

I smiled. "All the best people are."

Nain stepped forward—tentatively, like approaching a deer—and crouched a bit herself.

"Hello, cariad," she said, her voice tight in the chest. "I've waited a long time."

Tima stepped a little closer, holding Hoppy in front like a plush ambassador. "I have a hippo."

"I can see that," Nain said, lips quivering with a smile. "Very proper gentleman."

And then, like a tide folding over itself, Tima moved into her arms.

It wasn't fast. It wasn't movie-perfect.

But it was real.

Nain held her close, one hand on Tima's back, the other gently cupping the back of her head. I watched her close her eyes.

A tear slipped down her cheek and vanished into Tima's hair.

After a moment, she opened them and looked at me.

"You look tired."

"I am."

"You look whole, too," she said. "Somewhere underneath."

We didn't hug—not yet. But something between us settled anyway. Like the air had shifted.

She stood, holding Tima's hand now, and turned toward the car park.

"Come on then," she said. "Let's get you home before Sweden remembers it's cold."

We took the pendeltåg into the city—first from Arlanda to Märsta, then Märsta to Stockholm Central. Tima pressed her face to the train window most of the ride, her breath making soft circles in the glass. She counted birch trees, then switched to guessing where the cows were hiding.

"Maybe underground," she said seriously.

Nain and I sat opposite each other, our knees occasionally knocking as the train rocked. We didn't say much—too many years tucked between us for easy words—but it wasn't cold. Just quiet. Like two books sharing a shelf again.

At Stockholm Central, we walked a few streets to a café Nain used to like. Same corner, same yellow sign, slightly new paint. The inside smelled of butter and old wood, and the ceiling fans creaked like they'd been there since jazz.

Tima picked the seat by the window—wide bench cushions with faded embroidery—and asked if the boats outside were "drifting shops."

"They are," I said. "But they only sell waves."

She considered this with a very serious nod.

Nain ordered cheese toast and berry juice for Tima, a soft-boiled egg and coffee for herself, and something with pickles and roast veg for me. We didn't need menus. We needed comfort.

The toast came still steaming, the cheese golden on top. Tima bit it like it owed her rent.

"Mmm. Toast is better in Sweden," she said, crumbs tumbling from her lips.

"Controversial opinion," I muttered.

Nain smiled into her cup.

Outside the café window, boats eased past on the water. Slow, sleepy things, like they didn't want to disturb the summer air. Tima pressed a berry-stained finger against the glass every time one passed, giving them names: Starboat, Cheese Float, Captain Snoozy.

"She's doing well," Nain said softly, watching her—not just with eyes, but with something deeper.

I nodded, unsure if it was pride or grief tightening my chest. "She's got more in her than I ever did at that age."

"She's got more of all of us," Nain said.

Tima turned and looked at me then, cheeks pink from juice and toast, a bit of cheese stuck to her eyebrow. "I'm full."

"You're half toast at this point," I said, reaching to clean her face.

"Toast child," she grinned.

We lingered longer than we needed, letting the food settle, letting something else settle too—the quiet of being together, not perfectly, but presently.

Outside, the boats kept floating.

We took the 67 bus from Centralen, winding through the chestnut-lined streets toward Djurgården. Tima pressed her forehead against the window again, humming tunelessly and narrating every new thing.

"Three red houses, two ice creams, and a dog with no socks!"

Nain sat beside her, correcting the Swedish place names under her breath with gentle insistence. "Not 'shoe garden,' darling. Djurgården. It means 'animal garden.'"

Tima blinked. "zoo?"

"Better," Nain said. "It's like the forest remembers."

Skansen opened around us like a spell. Summer leaves rustled overhead, horses clip-clopped in the distance, and laughter drifted between the wooden houses. The air smelled of pine, caramel, and distant animals.

Tima nearly leapt from the pram as we passed the chicken pen.

"Chickies!" she shouted.

We barely made it ten steps before she was crouched beside the fence, whispering serious instructions to a hen. Hoppy dangled from one arm, unimpressed by poultry.

"Tell them they have to come for tea," she whispered.

I squatted beside her. "What if they're too busy laying eggs?"

She considered. "Then we'll have tea after."

The hen clucked loudly, as if in full agreement.

Further in, we reached the goats. Tima, armed with a small paper cup of feed, approached one like it was a grandparent in disguise. She held her hand out flat, tongue between her teeth in concentration. The goat licked the pellets eagerly, nudging her sleeve with its nose.

"Tickles!" she giggled, falling back into my lap.

"I think you've made a friend," I said.

"Maybe two. He said his name is... Möö?"

Nain chuckled from the bench nearby. "Möö is what they say, not who they are, sweetpea."

We wandered between old buildings—blacksmith shops, a bakery with open shutters, a windmill creaking in the soft breeze. Tima's hands stayed sticky with feed and pastry crumbs, her eyes wide and bright.

Everywhere, something to see. Something to touch. Something to remember.

By the little wooden stage, two young women in folk dress spun around to a fiddler's tune. Tima stared, entranced, her feet already tapping to rhythms she hadn't heard before but clearly knew.

"Dance with me, Papa!"

We twirled once, twice—her hands in mine, the gravel beneath us crunching with each small step. Hoppy watched solemnly from a nearby bench, propped up with pinecones.

After the music faded, we followed a narrow path past the old Sami tent and the herb garden, bees soft in the lavender bloom. We found shade near the stables, where horses snorted and swished their tails in the golden dust.

Nain sat between us, pulling something from the pocket of her linen coat—a thin, wrinkled paper with hand-written lines. A rhyme, from long ago.

"Do you know this one?" she asked Tima.

Tima shook her head.

"It's an old Swedish verse," Nain said, clearing her throat:

Jag hade en gång en båt

Med segel och ruff och köl

Men det var för länge sen, så länge sen

Svara mig du

Var är den nu?

Jag bara undrar: "Var är den nu?"

Tima blinked. "boats?"

"And feelings," Nain added. "And wondering."

She repeated it, slowly this time, letting Tima repeat each line after her. On the third round, they sang it together—unpolished, uneven, but full of something honest. I watched them—two voices years apart, threading something between them.

Tima leaned her head on Nain's shoulder.

"She's very warm," she told me.

"That's what grandmothers are for," I said.

We stayed there a while longer, watching people pass—families, old couples, toddlers melting into naps in their prams. The sun leaned west, turning the grass gold.

"I like Sweden," Tima whispered.

"I do too," I said, meaning it more than I'd expected.

We left Skansen with a little goat-shaped cookie in a paper bag, hands full of sticky memories and a rhyme I knew we'd be singing again soon.

The tram hissed and clicked as it pulled in. The platform was bathed in that strange midsummer twilight—where night never quite arrives, but day bows its head. Tima stood beside me, hands in her jacket pockets, shoulders high with fatigue, but eyes still wide with light.

The air smelled faintly of rain and gravel and old steel. Somewhere, a busker played accordion. It drifted through the electric hum of wires above us.

We boarded the tram and found a seat near the back. Nain sat across from us, her hands folded over her bag, quiet but smiling, watching the city fold itself inward with the night.

Tima pressed her cheek to the window, tracing the lights of the city as they slid by. Reflections made everything double—twinkling and trembling, as if Stockholm itself were dreaming.

She turned to me, her voice small but sure.

"Big train next?"

"The biggest one yet," I said, kissing her forehead.

She beamed, then yawned so wide I thought her jaw might creak.

From the window, we watched the last tram stops glide past—the water, the silhouettes of spires, cafés shutting their blinds. The lights in the tram flickered gently, the same rhythm as the swaying motion of the tracks.

Tima rested against me, thumb brushing the soft edge of Hoppy's ear.

I looked down at her, then across to Nain.

We were a trio in transit. Generations nestled in a tram car between time zones and train lines, between endings and arrivals.

She whispered, "Do we sleep on the next one?"

"All night," I said. "You'll wake up in another world."

The tram rolled on toward the central station, and the city, for all its motion, felt still.

Stockholm Central shimmered under the platform lights, the air still warm with the memory of day. The sleeper train stood waiting like a long, silver serpent coiled around stories yet to unfold. Tima held tightly to my hand as we stepped aboard, eyes scanning every button, every door, every echoing footstep.

The corridor was narrow, the kind that made you walk sideways and giggle. She did both.

"It's like a secret hallway," she whispered.

Our cabin was near the middle of the carriage—compact, warmly lit, the walls the colour of toast. A small ladder stretched toward the top bunk, and a low window blinked the last gold of the city.

Tima stepped inside and gasped.

"It's a ship!"

Nain chuckled softly, setting her bag on the lower bunk. "A ship on tracks."

Tima climbed onto the lower bunk, then the upper, bouncing lightly, giggling, peering through the little reading lamp like it was a periscope. I laid out her pyjamas—soft cotton ones with clouds and moons—folded neatly beside Hoppy and Patchy, already propped up on her pillow like loyal crewmates.

She climbed down and sat beside me while I pulled her socks off, wriggling her toes with exaggerated relief.

"They were sooooo hot," she declared.

Nain tucked a small chocolate into a napkin and left it by the pillow—just like when I was little.

"Night train chocolate," she said. "A tradition."

Tima's eyes lit up. "Like in the snow book?"

"Exactly," I nodded.

The train gave a small jolt as it started to roll. Tima's mouth curled into a sleepy grin.

"Captain on board," she whispered.

Outside, the city slipped away. Trees replaced buildings. The sky stretched quiet and slow.

We left the cabin door ajar and wandered down the corridor, Tima still in her day clothes, barefoot on the carpet. Just past the dining carriage, the cinema cart glowed dim and golden—a small screen flickering in the dark, a few scattered families watching from plush seats. Ratatouille was already playing. Tima spotted the little rat on screen and tugged my sleeve.

"The cooking one!" she whispered.

We slipped into two seats near the back. She curled against my side and watched for a while, eyes bright in the screenlight, murmuring along to bits she knew. The little rat stirred soup like a magician. The violins rose and the kitchen clattered. But her eyelids were already heavy, the day pressing down on her like a warm hand.

After twenty minutes or so she turned to me, mid-yawn.

"Can we have fika now?"

"Absolutely," I said.

We left the cinema cart—Remy still darting across pots and pans behind us—and made our way to the café cart, two carriages along. The light there was warmer, softer, the kind that makes everything feel like late afternoon even at ten o'clock at night. A few passengers sat alone with books and coffee, the low hum of conversation mixing with the steady rhythm of the rails.

We found a small table by the window. I ordered a tea for myself and a warm chocolate for Tima, and two kanelbullar that came on a blue ceramic plate, still slightly warm, sugar crystals catching the light.

Tima held her cup with both hands, blowing on it with great ceremony. She took a sip, got a chocolate moustache, and grinned.

"This is good train chocolate," she said.

"The best kind," I agreed.

We shared the cinnamon buns in small, quiet bites. Outside the window, the Swedish countryside slid past in silhouette—dark trees against a sky that refused to go fully black, that pale midsummer glow clinging to the horizon like a secret the night couldn't quite keep.

Tima dunked a piece of kanelbulle into her chocolate.

"Nain does this," she said. "She showed me."

"Did she?"

"With biscuits. But this is better."

She chewed thoughtfully. The train rocked gently, and the cups trembled in their saucers like small bells.

"Papa?"

"Mm?"

"I like trains more than planes."

"Why's that?"

She thought for a moment. "Planes go too fast. Trains let you see."

I looked at her—this small, flour-dusted philosopher in a rumpled shirt—and I thought she might be the wisest person I'd ever met.

We finished our fika slowly, watching the pale night pass. A lake glinted once through a gap in the trees, then vanished. The café cart attendant wiped the counter with slow, practised strokes. Somewhere further down the train, a door clicked shut.

"Ready for bed, love?"

She nodded, sliding off the seat and taking my hand.

We padded back along the corridor, our reflections ghosting alongside us in the dark glass. Back in the cabin, Nain was reading by the small lamp, her glasses perched low on her nose. She looked up and smiled.

"Good fika?"

"The best," Tima whispered, already climbing onto the lower bunk.

I changed her nappy on the narrow bed, balancing the wipes on my knee, the train swaying beneath us. She lay still, eyes on the ceiling, humming something—the tune from the film, maybe, or a song she'd invented between bites of cinnamon.

"Fox," she said, pointing at the animal on her clean nappy. "And a bird."

"Good eyes."

I eased her into her pyjamas—the cloud-and-moon ones—and pulled the thin blanket up to her chin. Hoppy went under her left arm. Patchy under the right. She arranged them with the precision of someone who understood that sleep was a serious expedition requiring proper crew.

Nain leaned down from above and kissed her forehead. "God natt, min skatt."

Tima looked up at her. "What's that mean?"

"Good night, little gold," Nain said softly.

Tima smiled. "I'm gold."

"You are," Nain whispered, and climbed back to her bunk.

I sat beside Tima for a moment, stroking her hair. The cabin rocked in its gentle rhythm. Outside, the pale sky held on, neither day nor night, just the long northern hush between the two.

"Papa," she murmured. "Will the train be there when I wake up?"

"It'll still be going," I said. "All night. Carrying us north."

"Like a boat," she said sleepily.

"Like a boat."

I kissed her brow, felt her breath slow against my hand.

"Good night, cariad."

Her eyes closed. Her fingers tightened once around Hoppy's ear, then softened. The rhythm of the rails took over—click-clack, click-clack—and within a minute, she was gone. Somewhere deep and safe, where trains run on moonlight and cinnamon buns never end.

I don't know what time it was when she woke. Early. Before me, before Nain, before the attendant's knock or the announcer's voice.

I only knew because I felt the bunk shift—a small, careful weight rearranging itself, the blanket tugged sideways, a soft breath drawn in close to the glass.

When I opened my eyes, she was lying on her belly, chin propped on her pillow, which she'd pulled lengthways so it pressed against the window. Hoppy was beside her, also facing out, as if they'd made a pact in the night to keep watch together.

She didn't notice me looking. She was too busy watching.

Outside, Jämtland was waking up.

The light came in pale gold, slanted and unhurried, spilling across fields that stretched wide and flat before lifting into low hills furred with birch and pine. Mist hung in the hollows like breath caught between words—thin, silver, dissolving wherever the sun touched it. A river wound through the valley floor, quiet and dark, catching the sky in pieces.

The train moved through it all with that steady, patient rhythm—click-clack, click-clack—the sound of something old and faithful doing what it had always done. The carriage swayed gently, and the light shifted across Tima's face in slow, golden bars.

She didn't speak. Not for a long time.

Just watched.

A red barn slid past, paint faded to the colour of old rust, surrounded by a field of wildflowers so bright it looked painted. Then a lake—small, still, reflecting the sky so perfectly it seemed like a hole in the earth leading to another world above. Cows stood near a fence, dull and heavy and content, their tails flicking at nothing.

Tima pressed her finger to the glass and traced the outline of a farmhouse perched on a hill.

"That one's sleeping," she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.

Then, a forest. Dense, dark, the kind where the light breaks through in columns and the floor is thick with moss and needle. It rushed past the window like a held breath, and Tima's eyes went wider, tracking the trees as they blurred and cleared and blurred again.

"Papa," she said, still not turning. "It's like the world is telling a story."

"It is," I said, my voice rough with sleep. "And the train's reading it out loud."

She considered this, then nodded once, slowly, as if something had clicked into place somewhere deep inside her.

A bridge rumbled beneath us—the brief, hollow thunder of steel over water—and she gasped, then laughed, pressing both palms flat to the glass. Below, the river flashed silver and was gone.

The sky widened. The hills grew gentler. More farms appeared, dotted between clusters of birch, their white trunks catching the morning like candles lit in a green church.

Tima rolled onto her back and looked up at the bunk above, where Nain's hand dangled over the edge, fingers loose in sleep.

"She's still dreaming," Tima whispered.

"Let her," I said. "She's earned a long dream."

Tima smiled and turned back to the window.

The train eased around a long, slow curve, and suddenly the view opened—the land falling away to the east, and there, between the hills, the first wide glint of Storsjön caught the morning sun. The Great Lake. Vast and calm, stretching to a horizon that shimmered like hammered tin.

Tima stared.

"Is that it?" she breathed.

"That's it," I said.

She didn't say anything else. Just watched, her small body perfectly still, the train carrying us closer with every click-clack, every gentle sway.

The announcer crackled overhead, naming Östersund Station in both Swedish and English. Tima bounced slightly in place.

"Did you hear that?" she gasped. "That's us!"

"Captain, prepare for disembarkation," I said.

She saluted solemnly.

We stepped off the train into morning so fresh it felt like starting over. The platform was quiet except for birdsong and the soft call of seagulls drifting over the nearby lake. A few early commuters shuffled past us. The station clock blinked 6:08.

Outside, Nain's yellow bus waited.

The ride was a short one—past sleepy shops, the still-closed gallery, and rows of painted fences that hadn't changed since I was a boy.

Tima rested her cheek against the window.

"Is this still Sweden?" she asked.

"All the way."

We reached Nain's flat in Odensala—second floor, red door, geraniums in the window. The hallway smelled of baking from someone else's breakfast. The floors creaked the same way I remembered. We left our shoes by the door.

Inside, the flat was sunlight and lace and the hum of something slow and lived-in.

Nain set her bag down and turned toward us.

"Today," she said, stretching a little, "we rest. Tomorrow, everything."

Tima looked up at me. "Do lakes have fish?"

"Only the polite ones," I smiled.

She nodded, satisfied.

The day stretched open around us, full of rooms we hadn't yet stepped into, smells we hadn't yet found, questions not yet asked.

It felt like the beginning.

The path to Lillsjön wound through a patch of summer woods, half wild and half remembered. The kind of trail that changes just enough each year to surprise you—but never so much that it forgets you.

Nain walked ahead, her pace steady and sure, a small woven basket swinging at her side. Inside: crispbread, boiled eggs, a thermos of coffee, and a secret chocolate bar she'd packed before sunrise.

Tima held my hand, hopping between patches of dappled light, her boots thudding softly against pine needles and dry earth.

"Where's the lake?" she asked.

"Just beyond the trees."

"Is it hiding?"

"Maybe waiting," I said.

We passed clusters of wild raspberry bushes and the slow buzz of bees doing their morning rounds. Birds flitted through the canopy, their calls rising and falling like a secret language we weren't quite meant to understand.

Tima paused suddenly.

Her hand tightened on mine.

"Look," she breathed.

Just off the path, growing in a scatter of gentle blue, the bluebells had returned.

She let go and darted forward, crouching down with a reverence I'd only seen in churches. Her fingers didn't touch—she knew somehow not to pick them—but her eyes drank them in like they were made of stars.

"Bluebells," she whispered. "Real ones."

She looked up at me, wonder painted across her cheeks. "Can we plant these at home?"

"They only grow where they're loved," I said.

She nodded solemnly. "We'll love them lots."

She stood, brushing her knees, and began to hum a tune of her own invention—something between a lullaby and a marching song. Nain turned back and smiled.

"First time seeing bluebells?"

I nodded. "Like this, yes."

"They always bloom before the lake's ready," she said. "It's how you know it's a good day."

Tima took one last look, then ran back to me, arms swinging.

"They're little sky flowers," she declared.

The trail curved. The trees parted.

And the lake, still as a held breath, appeared in the clearing below—waiting just as promised.

Lillsjön shimmered like a forgotten coin in the forest's palm—quiet, perfect, waiting.

Tima ran the last few meters across the mossy grass, her arms wide like wings, and came to a stop just before the edge.

"Can I?" she asked, already unzipping her coat.

"You may," I smiled, and handed her the green swimsuit with the tiny frogs on it.

She changed behind a rock, barely hidden, emerging a minute later like a sprite from a storybook—barefoot, bold, full of squeals. Hoppy waited dutifully on a folded towel, supervising.

The sun had stretched higher now, spilling itself across the water in long golden blades. A group of teenagers were farther along the shore, throwing pebbles, shouting jokes, and playing some tinny song from a phone speaker. Their laughter mixed with birdsong, and it felt right somehow—life spilling out in different shapes, all at once.

Nain had already rolled up her trousers to her knees and stepped into the shallows. Her feet sank into the mud with every step, and she gave a theatrical shiver.

"Still cold!" she called.

Tima followed without hesitation. The first splash sent ripples across the lake—and a pair of ducks turned their heads, unimpressed, before drifting away like grumpy neighbors.

She waded in slowly, toes gripping the bottom, until she stood knee-deep, arms raised in delight.

"It's like swimming in the sky!" she yelled.

I sat at the shore, watching them—one born of this place, one discovering it. They held hands and spun in the shallows, the sun turning the droplets around them into floating sparks.

Dragonflies hovered close, their wings catching light like stained glass. A frog jumped near the reeds. A breeze shifted the trees into gentle applause.

Tima crouched to touch the water's surface with both palms, then lifted them, watching the drops fall.

"It's tickly," she said to no one in particular.

Nain laughed, a real laugh that rose from her belly and filled the air like music.

She splashed Tima lightly, and Tima retaliated with full arm swings, sending glittering arcs into the air. Both of them soaked now, both giggling uncontrollably.

Behind them, the lake stretched wide and soft. Around them, the world glowed.

I sat back and let it all in—the scent of grass and sunlight, the sounds of summer in motion, the two people who mattered most to me framed in joy.

It wasn't peace exactly.

But it was something better.

It was presence.

The next morning, we packed a basket for the big field by Storsjön—the one just past the edge of Odensala, where the grass ran long and soft down to the lakeshore and the sky felt close enough to lean against.

Nain made smörgåsar—open-faced sandwiches with butter and cheese and thin slices of cucumber, wrapped in wax paper like small gifts. I boiled eggs and filled a thermos with coffee. Tima insisted on carrying the blanket, which she dragged behind her like a cape, its edges collecting pine needles and dust as we walked.

The field was empty when we arrived. Just us, the grass, and the wide calm of Storsjön stretching silver to the mountains on the far side. The air smelled of warm earth and clover.

We spread the blanket near a cluster of birch trees, their leaves whispering overhead in the soft wind. Tima immediately took off her shoes and pressed her bare feet into the grass, curling her toes.

"Green carpet," she announced.

We ate slowly. Tima peeled her egg with fierce concentration, picking off each fragment of shell like archaeological work. She dipped her bread in the yolk and chewed thoughtfully, watching a pair of swallows loop and dive above the lake.

"They're playing tag," she said.

"Fast tag," I said.

"The fastest."

Nain lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes, one hand shading her face. The sun caught the silver in her hair and turned it bright. She looked younger, lying down. Or maybe just unburdened for a moment.

Tima crawled over and placed a dandelion on her chest. Then another. Then a daisy chain she'd started without telling anyone.

"You're a flower queen now," she informed Nain.

Nain opened one eye. "Am I?"

"Yes. Official."

I watched them from the edge of the blanket, coffee warm in my hands. The lake shimmered. A boat moved far out, slow and patient, its wake dissolving into nothing. Somewhere in the village behind us, a church bell rang the hour.

Later, Tima and I walked barefoot along the waterline, the pebbles smooth and cool against our soles. She picked up stones and handed them to me, one by one, as if each was a word in a sentence she hadn't finished writing.

"This one's for Eira," she said, holding up a flat grey pebble.

"And this one?"

She looked at a small white stone, turned it in her fingers. "This one's for keeping."

She slipped it into her pocket without another word.

We stood at the edge of the lake—me and this tiny person—and watched the light change on the water. Not talking. Not needing to. Just standing in the middle of something bigger than both of us, letting it hold us.

The days in Odensala found their own rhythm after that. Not planned exactly, but felt. The way summer days are when you stop trying to fill them and just let them fill you.

Some mornings I woke to the sound of Tima whispering to Hoppy and Patchy in the hammock bed, staging elaborate adventures involving pirates, porridge, and a lake monster called Göran. Other mornings she was already in the kitchen with Nain, standing on the little stool, helping spread butter on bread with a concentration that bordered on surgical.

Evenings were long and golden. We'd eat on the small balcony—Nain's flat overlooking the rooftops and the distant shimmer of water—and Tima would name the clouds as they drifted past. "That one's a sleeping bear. That one's a hat for a mountain. That one's just shy."

One evening, after dinner, I put on one of my old Enya CDs in the small portable player, the one I'd carried since university. The soft chords drifted across the room like mist. Tima curled into the hammock bed and listened, one hand on Hoppy, the other gripping Patchy's paw.

"It sounds like water," she murmured.

"It does," I said. "Like a river that knows where it's going."

Her eyes closed before the second track ended.

Nain and I sat in the old chairs by the window afterwards, tea between us, the moon hanging low outside like a lantern left on the sill.

"She's settling," Nain said softly.

"Aye," I said. "More than I expected."

"Children do that. They find the rhythm of a place faster than we do. Less in the way."

We sat there a while, listening to the building breathe—the hum of an old fridge, the tick of the clock in the hallway, the faint creak of a child dreaming in the next room.

On the fourth day, we took the yellow city bus into town and got off near Jamtli. Tima held my hand and walked with that half-skipping gait she used when she was trying to contain excitement.

Inside, it was cool and full of soft echoes. We started with the main exhibits—old spinning wheels, skis longer than I was tall, snowshoes made from birchwood and sinew. Tima wandered slowly, stopping at every single doll and every taxidermy fox with a kind of gentle reverence.

There was a corner room with a reconstructed Stone Age shelter—fur-lined walls and a flickering projection of a campfire in the centre. Tima crawled in immediately and sat cross-legged like a tiny ancestor.

"We can live here if it rains forever," she declared.

Further on, we found the scroll room. A massive tapestry stretched from wall to wall, unfurling the legends of Jämtland across time: the Sami herders, the Norse settlers, the Swedish kingdom swallowing it all. One panel showed the Three Weavers of Destiny, hunched at their loom, threads of red and silver streaming through their fingers.

Tima stared at it for a long time. "They look tired," she whispered.

I nodded. "Weaving the world is hard work."

Then came the folklore section—dark wood panels and soft lighting. A huge wall mural told the tale of Jata and Kata, two ancient trolls said to live beneath the lake. According to the story, they'd spent centuries brewing something in a massive iron cauldron at the shoreline. Storm after storm they summoned, waves crashing as their brew bubbled.

"After many moons," the plaque read, "it hissed and spat, and from the foam leapt a beast none had seen before—a serpent with the head of a cat, body long as a river, scales like moonlight on snow."

Tima stood frozen in front of it, her mouth parted slightly.

"That's like Cerridwen," she said. "She brewed the awen and it got too strong. That's when everything changed."

My heart caught. That she remembered. That she understood.

We sat for a while in a small wooden boat in the corner of the hall, just the two of us. She told me what she'd do if she met the cat-serpent. "I'd give it a scarf, because lake monsters might get cold."

Before leaving, we stepped outside to the open-air portion of the museum—old farmhouses, painted red and ochre, cobbled streets and flower boxes brimming with wild herbs. Chickens pecked between the stones. Tima danced between them with delight.

In the museum café, we ended our visit with thick pancakes, served with cream and raspberry jam. Tima ate hers like a scroll, rolling it up and biting it from one end. Her lips turned pink from the jam.

"This is the taste of old stories," she announced solemnly.

And I believed her.

The afternoon softened into gold, and Nain took us to the small gallery tucked near the town square. The building had tall windows and a bell that jingled gently when the door opened. Inside, everything was quiet save for the low hum of a dehumidifier and the soft steps of other visitors.

Tima stood still before one large canvas. It was mostly blue, with swirling spirals of white and violet spilling toward a corner.

"That's a dream," she said, matter-of-fact.

Nain, standing behind her, nodded slowly. "Yes, it is. Someone painted what they saw when their eyes were closed."

We wandered room to room, and I watched her watch. She pointed out things I would never have noticed—a face in a corner of a painting, a hidden shape in negative space. To her, nothing was without voice.

In one small alcove, she sat on a bench and just stared at a sculpture that looked like a tree grown from paper. She didn't speak. Neither did I. The silence was enough.

Before we left, she drew something in the visitor guestbook. A spiral, two stars, and what might have been a cat with wings.

On the fifth day, Tima and I went alone.

We took the bus from Odensala—just the two of us, Nain waving from the balcony in her housecoat, coffee in hand—and headed north along the valley road toward Lit.

I hadn't been back in years. Not since I was a teenager, maybe. Not since the world was a different shape.

Lit sat quietly beside Indalsälven the way it always had—small, unhurried, not quite a village and not quite nothing. The houses along the main road were painted in that deep Swedish red, wooden fences leaning slightly with age, gardens thick with rhubarb and wildflowers. The air here was different—cleaner somehow, sharper, carrying the faint mineral scent of the river even before you could see it.

"This is where you were little?" Tima asked, pressing her face to the bus window.

"For a while," I said. "When I was about… well, a bit bigger than you."

"How much bigger?"

"Six or seven. Big enough to ride a bike but not big enough to reach the top shelf."

She considered this gravely. "I can't reach the top shelf either."

"Then you'll understand."

We got off at the small stop by the crossroads—nothing more than a pole and a faded sign—and walked down the hill toward the river. The road was quiet. A tractor hummed somewhere across a field. The sky was high and pale, streaked with thin cloud that looked like brushstrokes on wet paper.

Indalsälven appeared through the trees like a held breath released. Wide, dark, moving with a power that was felt more than seen—the kind of river that doesn't rush because it doesn't need to. It already knows where it's going.

We stood on the bank where the grass gave way to smooth, flat stones, the water lapping gently against them. Birch trees leaned over the edge as if drinking. The far bank was thick with pine, their reflections trembling on the surface.

Tima crouched and touched the water with one finger.

"It's cold," she said, surprised.

"Mountain water," I said. "Comes down from the high places."

She dipped her whole hand in and held it there, watching the current tug at her fingers. Then she looked up at me.

"Did you swim here?"

"Sometimes. When summer got brave enough."

"Were you scared?"

I smiled. "A little. The current's strong. But I had friends, and we'd dare each other, and we'd jump in shouting and come out laughing."

She nodded, as if this made perfect sense—as if she could see those boys, hear their voices, feel the old summer pressing against the present one.

We sat on the stones for a while, throwing pebbles into the current, watching them vanish. Tima kept score of the splashes—"big one, tiny one, invisible one"—and narrated a story for each: a stone going to find a fish, a stone on its way to Norway, a stone that just wanted to sleep at the bottom of everything.

"That last one's tired," she said sympathetically.

"Aren't we all," I murmured, and she patted my arm.

Afterwards, we walked up the village road to the small coffee shop I'd spotted from the bus—a narrow building with a blue door and a hand-painted sign that read Kaffestuga. Inside, it was warm and quiet, smelling of cardamom and fresh bread. Two older women sat at a corner table, talking softly over cups and cake. A cat slept in a patch of sunlight on the windowsill.

We sat by the window. I ordered coffee for myself and a glass of milk for Tima, and two slices of sockerkaka that came dusted with powdered sugar and a thin curl of lemon peel.

Tima ate hers slowly, crumb by crumb, watching the cat with serious interest.

"Does the cat work here?" she asked.

"I think the cat owns the place," I said. "Everyone else just helps."

She accepted this without question and offered a crumb toward the windowsill. The cat opened one eye, then closed it again. Diplomatic refusal.

"She's thinking about it," Tima said.

I looked out the window at the road, the trees, the low wooden fences. Somewhere out there was the house I'd lived in as a boy—the one with the blue gate and the apple tree that never quite produced anything edible. I didn't go looking for it. Some things are better kept as memory than confronted as fact.

But sitting here, in this small coffee shop, with my daughter eating cake and negotiating with a cat—I felt something close. Not a circle, exactly. More like a thread, pulled taut across the years, connecting one childhood to another.

Tima looked at me, a sugar smudge on her chin. "Can we come back tomorrow?"

"We'll see," I said, which we both knew meant yes.

The sixth day brought sun that meant business. High, warm, the kind that turned the lake into a mirror and made every shadow sharp. In the afternoon, we made our way down to the harbour, where the steamboat SS Thomée was docked, a proud and low vessel from another time.

Tima clutched her ticket like a passport.

"Is this a pirate ship?" she asked.

"Sort of. But the pirates here sell cinnamon buns instead of treasure."

She giggled and climbed aboard with both arms wide, as if to greet the whole lake.

The boat pulled away from the dock with a soft lurch, the whistle letting out a long note that echoed across the water. Mountains rose in the distance, cragged and patient. The lake sparkled under the afternoon sun, the wind crisp and sweet.

Tima stood at the rail for almost the whole ride, eyes fixed on the foam. Water splashed up and misted her cheeks, but she didn't flinch.

"I think this is where the cat serpent lives," she said. "Maybe Jata and Kata are watching us."

"Maybe they are," I said, brushing her hair back. "Maybe they think we're brave."

We ate warm kanelbullar and sipped sweet coffee from plastic cups. Tima talked to a baby seated nearby, told her about Hoppy and Patchy, and how the boat ran on steam and giggles.

The return was slower. The boat moved like it didn't want to leave the water behind. I felt the same.

That evening, back at the flat, we gathered around the little coffee table with an old photo album Nain had brought out from the cupboard. The cover was worn, a faint floral pattern now mostly faded, the spine patched with tape.

Inside were curled photographs from another time. Me, perhaps ten, with my sisters, all of us grinning like fools in front of the red train cars of the Inlandsbanan. I pointed. "Oh this one. Just before we left with the bus for town." A picture of me and my sisters and Nain, standing holding an old umbrella but no rain, early morning.

We lingered over the images—me with scruffy bangs, my sisters holding thermoses, Nain younger but with the same eyes, always watching, steady. The past felt close tonight, not heavy, just near. Like a breath you didn't quite realise you were still holding.

Tima studied each photo with care, pointing at my face in each one. "That's you but small," she said. "You had funny hair."

"Still do," Nain said.

After the album was put away, I helped Tima into her bedtime nappy and the soft cotton pyjamas with stars and bears. I tucked her into the hammock bed, Hoppy and Patchy flanking her like bedtime sentries.

I read from Songs and Sayings of Gwent and Glyndŵr—tonight's story about a hill that sang only to those who truly listened. She nodded slowly, eyes heavy, mouthing along with the final lines as if she already knew them.

"I love it here," she whispered.

"I know," I whispered back.

She blinked slowly. "The lake's inside me now."

I kissed her brow. "Keep it there, cariad."

On the last full day, I woke before anyone. The flat was still, the light pale and uncertain, the kind that belongs to the hour before the world decides what sort of day it wants to be.

I scrawled a note for Nain and placed it under her mug with a heart: Tima wanted to show the lake a secret. Be right back.

We dressed quietly—hoodies, soft trousers, our older sneakers—and slipped out into the morning.

Outside, the world was hushed and washed clean. The cool air held the scent of pine and wood smoke, and the sky was streaked with pale rose and cloudmilk. We walked downhill from the flat, past the small carpark, then under the old tunnel—its chipped murals of fish and birds painted by schoolchildren long grown.

Tima reached up and ran her hand across the peeling yellow sun on the wall.

"It's still warm," she whispered.

The tunnel spat us out into the back path toward the allotments—those flat green spaces that held the town's breath at the edge of the Great Lake. We passed rows of small fenced gardens where beans twisted skyward and strawberries poked out their tongues like secrets. A green watering can sat forgotten in the grass, and windchimes sang from someone's porch.

"Do gnomes live here?" she asked.

"I think only the very friendly ones," I said.

She walked a little ahead, her boots kicking small stones. "This is a real story path."

I agreed. It always had been.

When we reached the lake, the world opened wide. The Great Lake shimmered like a giant still breathing in sleep. A few boats rocked gently in their moorings, and the mountains across the water were dusted with early haze. The air smelled of grass, morning, and a hint of bread from somewhere far off.

I led her to a birch tree—slanted, knotted, older than her and me both. It stood just above the waterline, its trunk already crowded with names, initials, swirls of declarations old and newer.

"I want to write my name," she said.

I crouched and unfolded the small knife I'd carried since I was seventeen.

Together, we carved her name—TIMA—into the soft bark just above a heart someone else had drawn years ago. She traced the letters with her fingertip afterward, as if sealing a pact.

"This means the tree knows I was here," she said.

"And it will remember."

We sat quietly for a moment on a flat rock nearby, sharing water and a slice of leftover crispbread. The world moved around us in little ways: a crow passed overhead, a ripple reached the shore, the sound of a distant door opening.

Then we walked back slowly, retracing our steps past the gardens, through the tunnel, and up to Koporten. Nain was at the window when we returned, coffee in hand.

"You carved it?" she asked, though she already knew.

I nodded.

She smiled. "Good. That tree needed a new name."

The last morning came slower than before. Grey light through gauze curtains, the soft creak of old floorboards. I was already awake, folding our things in quiet motion, careful not to wake her.

Tima lay curled in the hammock bed, one arm flung over Patchy, Hoppy tucked beneath her chin. Her hair fanned across the pillow like stray light. I paused, just watching her, holding that fragile stillness.

From the kitchen, the scent of toast and coffee drifted in. Nain stood by the window, one hand on her cup, the other resting on the sink ledge as she looked out toward the tree-lined street.

She didn't speak when I entered. Just gave me a small nod, as if to say she'd been here before—this kind of goodbye, the quiet kind, the kind you pack in layers.

We moved around each other with familiarity. I packed the last things into the bag, zipping it shut slowly, the sound loud in the hush of morning.

By the time Tima padded out of bed, hair like a wild crown, the kitchen was warm with toast, jam, and boiled eggs. We sat close at the table, sharing small bites and softer looks.

No one said much. Words felt heavy, and unnecessary. The tea steamed between us like a bridge.

When it was time to go, Tima pulled on her boots without prompting. She hugged Nain tight, arms squeezing round the neck, burying her face in the curve of her shoulder.

"You smell like cake," she mumbled.

Nain laughed, and something caught in her throat. "You smell like summer."

We walked together to the station—all three of us this time, Nain insisting. The morning was cool and bright, the kind that makes you walk a little slower because the light is too good to rush through. Tima held both our hands and swung between us, her boots scuffing the pavement in a rhythm that sounded almost like a song.

At Östersund Station, the platform was quiet. A few early travellers stood with bags and thermoses, eyes on the departures board. The train south was already there, idling, its long silver body humming with patient energy.

I set the bags down and crouched beside Tima to check her laces. She was quiet. Her hand found Hoppy in the pocket of my bag and pulled him out, holding him close.

Nain stood a few steps back, hands clasped in front of her, watching us with that particular steadiness she had—the kind that didn't flinch, didn't waver, just held.

"Time to go, cariad," I said gently.

Tima looked at the train, then back at Nain. She walked over slowly and reached up, pressing something into Nain's palm.

It was the white stone. The one from the lake. The one she'd said was for keeping.

Nain looked down at it. Her lips trembled, just once.

"I'll keep it on the windowsill," she said. "Where the light hits it first."

Tima nodded, satisfied. Then she hugged her again—quickly this time, fierce and sure—and turned back to me. Ready.

We climbed aboard. Found our seats by the window. The doors beeped and closed with a soft hiss.

Through the glass, Nain stood on the platform. She didn't wave at first. She just stood there, one hand closed around the stone, the other pressed to her heart.

Tima placed her palm flat against the window.

Then Nain raised her hand—slow, steady—and waved. Not frantically, not sadly. Just… fully. The kind of wave that holds everything in it. Every meal, every story, every lake, every night train chocolate in a napkin.

The train began to move.

Tima kept her hand on the glass until the platform was gone, until the station had dissolved into trees and track and open sky. Then she lowered it slowly and turned to me.

"She's still waving," she said. "I can feel it."

"She is," I said.

I believed it too.

The train from Östersund to Stockholm rolled through the morning in long, patient curves. Tima sat at the window, cheek against the glass, watching pine trees pass in blurs of green and gold.

We didn't talk much. Her thumb rubbed the edge of Hoppy's paw. The fields moved by like old lullabies.

Somewhere past Gävle, she perked up, pointing suddenly. "Snow pig!"

I blinked. "What?"

She jabbed at the glass. "Look! There! That hill! It's like a pig lying down! See?"

And oddly, I did. A mound shaped thing, maybe one of those bales of hay wrappen in plastic.. it looked like a resting beast, ears and all. I laughed, and she laughed with me, eyes bright.

Then she yawned, long and slow, and rested her head in my lap.

The rhythm of the train lulled us both. The sky outside dimmed into soft cloud cover, and the miles unwound behind us like thread from a spool.

By the time we reached Arlanda, the airport was a maze of bright lights and lines. Everything echoing, rushing. But inside me, it had gone quiet.

We found a corner seat by a wide window. Planes rose in the distance like metal birds.

Tima napped on the bench, curled in her jacket, Hoppy under one arm, Patchy under the other. Her mouth slightly open, a soft little snore escaping now and then.

I pulled out my journal.

10:42 AM. Arlanda.

She's asleep.

It feels like the whole trip was a bubble. No, a small perfect storybook with no spine.

I want to press every page flat and never forget the smell of pine or the way she said "snow pig."

I know she won't remember all of it.

But I will.

I closed the notebook slowly.

Outside, a plane took off.

Inside, I stayed still and full.

The flight home was quieter than the one going out. Tima slept through most of it, head on my arm, Hoppy and Patchy wedged between us. I watched the clouds from the other side now—west-facing, evening-lit, the sun pulling everything into amber and rose. Somewhere below, the North Sea glinted. Somewhere ahead, Wales waited, green and patient.

At Heathrow, we moved through the corridors in that dazed, post-journey haze—everything slightly too bright, slightly too loud, the body not quite sure what time zone it belongs to. Tima walked beside me, holding Hoppy by one ear, her backpack bouncing with every step.

We took the coach to Newport, then the bus back through Crosskeys. The valley thickened around us in the fading light—hedgerows, stone walls, the river below winding through its own quiet story. Tima watched it all through the window, but differently now. Not with discovery, but with recognition.

"We're nearly home," she said.

"Nearly," I said.

And then we were.

The cottage smelled of cawl again. Of course it did.

Steph was at the door before the bus had fully stopped, Eira just behind her, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hair wild from a day of whatever adventures had kept her occupied. Peter stood in the hallway beyond, a tea towel over one shoulder, giving me the kind of nod that said welcome back and don't make a fuss about it.

Tima ran the last few steps and collided with Eira so hard they both nearly toppled.

"I brought you a rock!" Tima shouted, already digging in her pocket. "It's from a LAKE."

"Is it magic?" Eira asked, taking it with appropriate reverence.

"Probably."

Steph put her arms around me—not frantically, not with tears, just steadily—and held on for a moment longer than usual. Her hair smelled of shampoo and kitchen steam. Her hands were warm on my back.

"Good trip?" she said into my collar.

"The best," I said. "She was incredible."

Steph pulled back and looked at Tima, who was now showing Eira how to hold Patchy properly—"not by the ears, that's rude"—and her face softened in a way I hadn't seen in weeks.

"I can see it," she said. "Something's different."

"Good different?"

"The best different."

Peter handed me a mug of tea without being asked. "You look knackered," he said.

"Cheers, Peter."

"Welcome home, though."

We sat around the table that night—the five of us, bowls of cawl and torn bread, the girls cross-legged on the bench, Hoppy and Patchy propped between them like honoured guests. Tima told wild, half-accurate stories about trains and goats and a lake monster called Göran who wore a scarf and liked pancakes. Eira listened with wide eyes, adding suggestions and sound effects.

Peter asked sensible questions. Steph asked the real ones—quietly, later, when the girls were in the other room.

"Did she talk about her mum?"

"A little," I said. "In the way she does. Gently. Without knowing she's doing it."

Steph nodded, and something in her eyes said she understood more than she let on.

We put the girls to bed together—Tima and Eira side by side in the big bed, their heads touching, Hoppy and Patchy and a new addition (a stuffed fox Eira had acquired in our absence) arranged in a careful perimeter.

"Night night," Tima said. "Night night, sky. Night night, trains."

"Night night," Eira echoed. "Night night, Sweden."

And within minutes, they were both gone—breathing slow and even, tangled together like they'd never been apart.

That first morning back, I woke to the sound of rain. Not heavy—just the soft kind, the Welsh kind, the kind that hangs in the air like mist and settles on everything without anyone noticing.

I dressed quietly and got the girls ready. Steph was already at the table with toast and tea, her files for work spread beside the butter dish. Peter had left early—a note on the counter said something about picking up fencing wire and would be back by lunch.

Tima wore her yellow rain mac and her red wellies. Eira had on the green ones. They looked like a pair of tiny traffic lights.

We stepped outside and walked down the lane toward the canal path.

The air was cool and silver, the morning light diffused through cloud so thin it barely counted. The hedgerows dripped softly. The towpath was damp underfoot, that familiar give of wet earth, and the ferns along the banks leaned in close, heavy with water. Everything smelled of bark and moss and the faint iron tang of the canal itself.

Tima walked ahead, splashing deliberately in every puddle, Hoppy tucked inside her mac with just his head poking out. Eira kept pace beside her, narrating their journey in a running commentary that involved pirates, a lost crown, and a mud dragon.

I walked behind them, hands in pockets, watching their small shapes move through the green tunnel of trees. The canal lay still beside us, dark and smooth, reflecting the overhanging branches in perfect symmetry—a second world, upside down and quietly watching.

I thought of the lakes. Of Lillsjön shimmering, of Storsjön opening wide, of the birch tree with her name carved into its bark. And then I thought of this—this canal, this path, this soft grey morning—and I understood that they were all part of the same thing. The same water, the same story, winding through different landscapes but flowing toward the same place.

Home.

We crossed under the old stone bridge where the ivy grew thickest, and the path curved toward Crosskeys. The Ty Sign daycare was just ahead now, its pastel fence just visible through the trees, the sound of small voices already drifting over the hedge.

The teacher was at the gate when we arrived—a tall woman with kind eyes and a wool cardigan that looked like it had survived several generations of sticky fingers. She crouched as we approached, her face breaking into a wide smile.

"Bore da! Oh wait—" she corrected herself with a grin, glancing at the clock on the wall behind her. "Prynhawn da! Just about, isn't it?"

Tima looked up at her and beamed. "Prynhawn da!"

Eira echoed it, already halfway through the gate, drawn by the sound of water play and the promise of chalk.

Tima paused at the threshold. She turned back to me, Hoppy still tucked inside her coat, and held up one hand—small, open, certain.

"Bye, Papa," she said. "See you after the puddles."

I crouched and kissed her forehead. "After the puddles."

She walked through the gate without looking back, her boots already finding the first splash, her voice rising to meet the others—a bright thread joining the chorus.

I stood there a moment longer, the mist settling on my shoulders, the canal path stretching quiet behind me. The morning held itself gently, the way mornings do when they know they matter.

Then I turned, hands in pockets, and walked back the way I'd come.

The rain kept falling.

The path kept winding.

And somewhere behind me, a little girl was already making potions.