True Colours

The bus wheezed as it pulled out of the Newport station, its tired suspension creaking under the rain-slicked passengers and the weight of another grey afternoon. Inside, it smelled like damp coats, stewed coffee, and something faintly floral from someone's stubborn perfume.

Near the back of the upper deck, Papa sat slouched with a small, battered philosophy book cracked open across his knees — its pages feathered and smudged with pencilled notes. A pen was tucked behind one ear, forgotten. The margins of the book were a battlefield of thoughts and contradictions.

Peter sat beside him, arms crossed, watching the wet streaks race each other down the window. His hoodie was too thin for the rain, but he hadn't brought a coat, of course.

"Apparently," Papa said, tapping a sentence like it had personally wronged him, "freedom is just theatre where everyone's forgotten their lines."

Peter snorted. "Speak for yourself. I'm brilliantly unfree. Award-winning, even."

Papa closed the book with a sigh. "I'm meant to connect radical autonomy to social responsibility. Do you think Nietzsche ever had to write an essay while some daft bugger was pelting him with raisins during form period?"

"Nietzsche was the year nine pelting people with raisins," Peter said, stretching out his legs and shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. "Anyway, you're overthinking it. Just write 'God is dead, but I'm not — unfortunately,' and hit word count. Job done."

Papa closed the book on a sigh, thumb still marking the page. "I can't hand in irony as a conclusion."

Peter shrugged. "Why not? We live it. Every day."

They fell into a companionable silence as the bus wound its way out of the city and into the edges of the valley. The drizzle thickened into a steady curtain. Buildings thinned, replaced by hedgerows, stubborn trees, and soaked fields that seemed to slump in on themselves. The hills leaned in like they were eavesdropping.

A pair of teenagers with wet trainers and massive headphones got on near Tredegar Park, their coats dripping trails. An older man further down coughed — not politely, not discreetly, but with the thunderous authority of someone who had been perfecting his performance for years.

Peter flinched and muttered, "Right in the soul, that one. Man's got lungs like a foghorn."

Papa stifled a laugh. "Coughing with Nietzschean purpose. The will to phlegm."

He shifted, glancing sideways at Peter. "So. You still good to help me with the bathroom door tomorrow?"

Peter made a face. "I thought I was sleeping through Saturday, cariad. That was the plan."

"You can sleep while holding the screwdriver. I've seen you do it."

Peter smirked but didn't say no. "Aye, alright. But I'm not promising miracles, mind."

The bus slowed again, brakes hissing. Outside, Risca blurred through the wet glass — slate rooftops, yellow daffodil wreaths in windows, the quiet, familiar pulse of a place that didn't know it was waiting for anything.

Papa squinted out at the shops. "Gibbons still open?"

Peter shook his head. "Only for the eternally hopeful. Shut last year."

"Huh. Thought they'd outlive the rain." Papa huffed.

There was a pause. The kind that meant something, but neither reached for it.

Peter leaned back and asked lightly, "So. How long you staying this time?"

Papa glanced down at the book, then at the grey light outside. "A bit."

"A bit bit? Or a longer bit?" Peter now looking at him...

"Long enough to miss the bins, probably."

Peter gave a small huff of laughter. "Always a strategic exit."

"Or," Papa said, nudging his shoulder, "a heroic avoidance of domestic responsibility."

They smiled — not too wide, not too sad. The sort of smile that holds memory at arm's length.

---

The bus hissed to a halt just past Tredegar Grounds. The drizzle had eased into a fine mist, hanging in the air like breath that hadn't quite left the lungs.

Papa zipped his jacket halfway, book tucked under one arm. Peter gave a little shake like a dog, glancing up toward the low sky.

"Well," Peter muttered, "it's not raining. It's just enough to be annoying."

"Like you?" Papa said beeming..

"Exactly like me."

They crossed the road toward the roundabout, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement and dodging a lime-green umbrella wielded by an old woman with battlefield determination.

The café on the corner hadn't changed much. It never did. Peeling linoleum by the counter. Faded floral oilcloths. The buzz of a mismatched fridge. It smelled like bacon grease and boiling kettles, the steam fighting the condensation on the windows. A place that had never once cared about being trendy.

Peter held the door and let Papa in first. The little bell over the door gave a tragic plink.

At the counter, a tired woman in her fifties — apron smudged, eyeliner defiant — looked up and grinned. "Back again, boys?"

"Only for your charm, Elin," Peter said, slapping a pound coin on the wood.

"Liar," she replied, pouring hot water with the practiced flick of a saint.

Peter ordered his usual: "Black coffee, nothing fancy. None of that..." he made a face, "...oat milk."

"You said that last time."

"And you gave me oat milk last time."

"I did... Because you need more fibre, cariad." said Elin, smile as wide as the vallyes.

Papa tried to slide his card forward. "Oh, I've got this."

Peter batted his hand away. "Absolutely not. Your student loan is worth less than the Mars bar in the vending machine at the college."

"I could Luup you."

"We are not saying the word 'Luup' in Risca. This is sacred ground."

"Besides, that phone of yours is older than you are" Peter muttered...

Papa smirked and took a seat by the window.

The windows steamed around the edges, catching the orange of the traffic light — warm, even when everything else was cold and grey. Papa found himself thinking about colors again. Shades and tones when words felt too complicated.

Behind the till, someone tuned the radio to BRfm.

Snatches of Welsh filtered through:

"Mae hi'n bwrw glaw drachefn…" (It's raining again…)

"Cân o Gymru yn nes ymlaen…" (A song from Wales later on…)

Elin brought the mugs over. "Toast'll be out in a tick. You two look soaked."

"We're just atmospheric," Papa said.

Peter blew on his coffee and glanced over. "So. Philosophy essay?"

Papa sipped his tea, carefully. "I think I might actually pass this one. Might even enjoy it."

Peter gave him a side-eye. "You? Enjoying something? Must be love or madness."

"Possibly both."

Outside, a man walked past with a sheepdog on a taut red lead, both of them looking more dignified than the weather deserved.

Peter took a sip, winced. "Still better than the coffee in London. Yours still taste like burnt despair?"

Papa nodded, solemn. "Burnt despair, with a dash of oat milk."

Peter raised his mug. "To despair and daffodils."

They clinked cups.

The bell above the door jingled again, and Papa checked his phone. "Nearly time to meet her."

Peter stood, brushing crumbs off his lap. "Is she going to be grumpy or charming today?"

Papa zipped up and grinned. "Both. It's her nature."

---

They left the café into mist that had started to thicken again — not rain, but the sort of wet that snuck in under collars and behind ears.

Ahead lay the Gwent College campus, half obscured by the haze, all red brick and hopeful posters. Somewhere in there, she'd be finishing her class, already halfway through a retort before they even arrived.

The college building crouched like a brick fortress in the mist, its windows smeared with condensation, its notice boards overburdened with colourful flyers fluttering limply in the damp.

She was already outside.

Coat too big, flapping like a banner in the wind. Hair trying to escape its clip. A spiral-bound notebook clutched in one hand, visibly soaked. The other hand jammed in a pocket, fingers drumming. Her boots were muddy — not by accident, but by intention.

She saw them and shook her head, then held the notebook aloft.

"I told you to bring the umbrella."

"You said it was a maybe drizzle," Papa countered.

"I said you were a maybe drizzle. This is a biblical event."

Peter raised both hands. "I abstain. I just work here."

She turned to him with a grin, eyes glinting. "And you still haven't trimmed that mess on your face. You look like you lost a fight with a badger."

"You should see the badger," Peter shot back. "He's rethinking all his life choices."

She kissed Papa's cheek, a brief, habitual gesture, but not without meaning. He took her soaked notebook and tucked it under his jacket. "How was class?"

"Awful. No one read the chapter, including me. We spent an hour talking in circles about moral frameworks while Sarah said things like 'subjective objectivity' with a straight face."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Sounds advanced."

"Sounds nonsense. I wanted to scream, but I wrote a haiku instead."

She fished out a folded receipt and read:

Ethics is like fog

Everyone pretends they see

But no one's driving.

Peter gave a small bow. "Published poet. Incredible."

They started walking together, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm.

She carried on talking, all elbows and ideas, pivoting from gossip to grand theories with no transition.

"I swear that lecturer thinks Descartes was a lifestyle brand," she said. "He used the word synergy and meant it."

Papa made a sound of existential pain at that. "My soul just curled up."

They paused at the traffic light. A lorry passed with a blast of mist and exhaust, making them all flinch. Mama huffed and wiped her glasses with the hem of her scarf, leaving smudges.

Peter checked his phone. "The bus is in seven minutes."

She looked toward the direction of the stop, then up toward the canal path. The rain had eased again, just a whisper now. The sky cracked slightly with a warmer light, a patch of rose breaking through the clouds like a shy thought.

"We could take the canal?" she suggested.

Peter grimaced. "My soul just curled up again."

"Oh, come on. It's not even steep." Mama retorted.

"You say that, but every time I nearly lose a lung."

Papa glanced between them. "You two do complain artistically, I'll give you that."

Peter sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. "Fine. I'll walk. But only if someone carries me like the reluctant prince I am."

"Stick-Stick's busy today," she said.

They crossed toward the towpath entrance, boots clicking against wet stone. Behind them, the bus whooshed by — empty, hollow, gone.

They didn't look back.

"We need air," she said, swinging the old metal gate open with a squeak. "You need it."

Papa laughed, already following. "Resistance is futile."

Peter exhaled like a man betrayed. "I just want it noted that I voted bus."

"It's in the minutes," she called over her shoulder.

The canal path greeted them with a hush — a long ribbon of quiet shadow, laced with the soft drip of trees. Their footsteps tapped against stone and wet leaves, each fall a note in the rhythm of a slow autumn song. The cold pressed gently against their faces, not harsh but present. Real.

The light was syrupy — that thick golden hue just before the dusk folds in for real. Trees spilled amber along the path, catching in puddles, puddles catching in thoughts.

The water beside them moved in near silence, broken only by the sudden flit of a moorhen or the slow swirl of leaves caught in a forgotten current.

They passed the rusted crane by the lock, still wrapped in red-and-white tape like a half-hearted present.

"It's still not fixed?" she asked, incredulous.

Peter made a sweeping hand motion. "It's a deeply symbolic installation. Represents the industrial decay of post-coal infrastructure."

"It represents someone not doing their job," she muttered, dodging a puddle.

She chuckled. "I almost fell in once, right there. Chased a paper boat too far."

Peter nodded. "I remember. You were seven. Socks filled with canal juice. Mum thought you'd dissolve."

"She made me wear wellies indoors for a week."

"You were a soggy legend," Peter said."

They paused at a bend where the water narrowed and ran quicker. The canal deepened here, its surface suddenly black and glinting — reflecting more sky than land.

They stood together for a breath.

"Looks like ink," she said quietly. "Or memory."

Peter tilted his head. "Depends who's doing the writing."

A wind stirred. The leaves above shook off a few more pages of the season.

They walked again, a little slower. Papa kicked a small stone into the water — it vanished with barely a ripple.

Ahead, the lights of crosskeys began to blink on one by one, like someone gently remembering.

By the time they reached the cottage, the sky had pulled its grey blanket over Risca, and the world outside felt gently tucked in.

---

The door creaked open with its usual reluctant sigh. They stepped into warmth and the soft, comforting scent of home — stewed leeks, a whisper of woodsmoke, and the faintest trace of lavender from the washing still hung over the back door. The warmth hit Papa's cold cheeks like an embrace. Real. Physical. The kind of comfort that didn't need words.

Coats were shed and flung over the bannister, wet wool heavy in their hands. Socks came off by the radiator in a damp, heroic pile, toes slowly remembering what warmth felt like. A low fire snapped and muttered in the grate, casting honey-gold light across the floorboards.

She moved like a quiet storm — already in the kitchen, already ladling out soup into chipped bowls, her hair damp around the edges and cheeks still pink from the cold.

Peter opened the fridge, leaned in, and immediately recoiled.

"Is this cheese meant to move, or is it preparing for battle?"

She called from the stove, "It's got more character than you do, Peter."

Papa collapsed into the worn armchair with a dramatic sigh, rubbing one eye.

"I'm not tired."

"You're always not tired when you sit like that," Peter said, bringing over the cheese plate with exaggerated care — holding it like it might bite.

They settled into the main room, the heart of the house. Cushions were tossed down. A blanket appeared. The low light from the lamp curved across their faces, softening everything.

The radio hummed quietly in the background — something old and vaguely jazzy. The table was set without effort, bread passed between hands, spoons tapping against ceramic bowls.

She tucked her feet beneath her, balancing her bowl on her knees.

"I had to pretend to care about postmodernism for two full hours today," she said. "That deserves a medal."

Peter raised his glass. "To surviving academia. And moving cheese."

Papa's head lolled slightly — eyes open, but only just. His notebook was in his lap, pen fallen into the sofa cushions. One page was half-filled with crooked scrawl:

Nietzsche: freedom is a kind of courage… or maybe just giving up pretending you know the plan.

"Deep," Peter said, peering at it. "You should get that tattooed."

She looked toward Papa, her voice soft now.

"Come on then, sleepy poet. Talk to me about colours."

He blinked sleepy. "Colours?"

"You said something on the canal. About writing. I was thinking… colour's a kind of language, isn't it?"

Peter leaned back. "Here we go…"

But he was smiling.

And the fire kept humming its old tune.

The soup had mostly been eaten. Bread crusts sat forgotten on napkins. Outside, the sky was doing its best to apologise — streaked now with post-storm pink, soft lilac bruises spreading behind the hills.

She leaned against the window frame, a mug warming both hands.

"Look at that," she said. "Looks like the clouds are blushing."

Peter glanced up from where he was attempting to balance a biscuit on Papa's sleeping knee. "From what? Embarrassed they flooded the whole town again?"

She smiled without turning. "No. Just… sometimes the world gets overwhelmed too."

Papa, half-awake now, murmured, "That's not in my textbook...."

She turned, resting her head against the glass.

"You ever feel like a colour?"

Peter squinted. "I feel like tea. Does that count?"

She tossed him a kitchen towel.

"no really..."

Peter pointed at himself. "Alright then, what about me? What colour am I?"

She studied him, fingers wrapped around her mug. A teasing smile tugged at her mouth.

"Charcoal and stubbornness. The kind of charcoal that's been through fire and came out stronger. Dark, but not cold. You hold heat even when you don't look like you're burning."

Peter raised a hand, mock-proud. "A classic palette. Moody but useful."

Papa stirred slightly in the chair, eyes still closed.

"He's smoke with a soft core," papa said, voice gentler now.

"I'll take that," Peter said, settling back against the cushions.

Papa cracked one eye open. "What about you?"

She was quiet for a moment. The fire cast her face in slow-moving light, and something softened behind her expression.

"Sunlit honey," she said finally. "With streaks of stormcloud. The kind that never quite pass but don't ruin the day." She looked at the fire. "How honey can be gold and amber and almost brown — all in the same jar, depending on the light."

Peter nodded slowly. "Sounds like a flavour of cake."

She laughed. "I'll take that."

Outside, the world had quieted — no more drizzle, just the occasional hush of water sliding from a branch.

The fire was down to whispers. Papa, still half-listening, blinked once and let the warmth claim him. His head tilted, breath slow and deep.

Peter nudged the blanket over him, and Papa started to snore.

Peter whispered, "He's definitely asleep now, or whatever that thundering noise is called."

She laughed and took another sip of tea and whispered back, "Then we won't ask what colour he is. Some things are better left glowing."

They sat in that light for a while. The kind of moment you don't know to treasure until later.

The fire clicked and whispered, low and steady, as if trying not to wake him.

Papa had drifted fully off now, one hand curled beneath his cheek, the other loosely draped across his stomach, still clutching the corner of a philosophy book like he meant to finish a thought before dreaming got in the way.

In the corner of the room, she folded laundry — shirts and socks warmed by the hearth, fragrant with that faint trace of rain. She moved slowly, not out of tiredness, but with a kind of practiced gentleness, smoothing fabric with care that made even Peter feel quieter.

Peter sat on the floor, back against the worn arm of the couch. His legs stretched out in front of him, fingers idly picking at a frayed thread on his sleeve.

She hummed, at first absentmindedly — just a few notes beneath her breath. But the tune was familiar, enough to catch Peter's ear.

"True Colors," he said, not looking up.

She smiled, kept folding. "That was on your old CD, wasn't it?"

She paused for a moment, then nodded. "The scratched one that skipped on every chorus."

Peter gave a quiet laugh. "Still knew every word though."

"Didn't need the disc to remember." Her voice was soft now. "Just needed a bit of quiet, like this."

The room breathed around them. Rain began again, a light tapping on the roof like fingers seeking a rhythm. The kind of rain that asked nothing of you but still kept you company.

Peter shifted, leaning his head back. The ceiling above them held the orange flicker of firelight dancing with shadow.

He looked over at her, folding the last shirt. "You think it'll all be like this in five years?"

She shrugged, not unkindly. "Things always change. But if we're lucky…" She glanced toward Papa, sleeping soundly. "...the important bits stay."

Peter nodded, eyes back on the fire.

No more words were needed.

Just the rain, and the faint, trailing hum of a tune that had meant something once — and would come to mean more than any of them could yet know.

---

Many, many, moons later, in the world that came after..

---

The cottage smelled faintly of old toast and damp stone — the kind of smell that only settles in places where time has softened the corners. Pale light pushed through the gauze curtains, more suggestion than sun, the kind of grey morning that didn't care what time it was. Outside, the fog pressed gently against the glass, not in any hurry to leave.

Papa stirred on the sofa, one arm flung over his eyes, the other curled across his ribs. His jumper was rumpled and slept in, jeans creased and twisted at the knee. He hadn't meant to sleep there — just sat down the night before and never quite got back up.

Across the room, Tima babbled to herself in the soft little nest by the hearth — a makeshift circle of cushions and the faded quilt with ducks on it. She waved her hands like she was conducting invisible music, legs kicking gently against the edge of her blanket. Every now and then she made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.

Peter's footsteps were soft on the wood floor, the sound of a man used to not waking babies. He held a steaming mug in one hand, already dressed and cleaned up, hair still damp from the shower.

"Up, cariad," he said gently, nudging Papa's foot with his own. "Tea's decent this time. No promises on the toast, mind, but the tea won't kill you."

Papa groaned, more out of habit than protest, and sat up slowly, scrubbing his face with both hands. He looked like a man made of thin thread — held together by sleep and stubbornness and not much else. But he reached for the mug.

Tima squealed at the sound of his voice, flapping her arms like she was conducting the morning into being. Peter grinned and scooped her up, holding her with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times and would do it a hundred more.

"She's hungry," Peter said, already pulling a bottle from the little warming tray near the stove. "You're on feed duty. I'm on eggs. Fair's fair."

Papa took Tima with a half-smile, the kind that doesn't reach the eyes but still tries. She tucked against his chest like she belonged there — which, of course, she did. He held the bottle awkwardly, hands a bit unsteady, and she latched on like a champ.

Peter turned back to the stove, cracking eggs into the pan. The sizzle filled the quiet. Somewhere outside, a crow called once, then silence again.

The rhythm was simple, domestic — not healed, but moving.

Papa looked down at Tima, who blinked up at him with those storm-grey eyes, milk-drunk and calm. Her little hand curled around his thumb.

"I dreamt of her again," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Peter didn't turn around. He just nodded and kept stirring.

"Was it the one where she's standing in the kitchen, or the one with the train?" he asked softly.

Papa looked up, surprised. Then shook his head with a tired laugh.

"Neither," he murmured. "This time she was humming. Couldn't see her. Just the sound. Something tuneless. The way she used to hum when she was working on a drawing."

Peter flipped the eggs. For a moment, the kitchen was full of the sound of sizzling and breathing and the ghost of her melody.

"That's something," he said quietly. "Better than silence. She hated silence, didn't she?"

"She did," Papa said. "Said it made the world feel empty."

They didn't speak for a while after that. The fog pressed closer to the window panes. The fire hadn't been lit yet. But the day, somehow, had begun.

---

The gravel behind the cottage was still wet from the night's mist, soft underfoot as they stepped out. The cold bit at Papa's cheeks — not unpleasant, just sharp. A reminder that his body still worked, still felt things. Tima was asleep in the pram, her little fists tucked under her chin, the duck-blanket rising and falling with each breath. The wheels gave a familiar squeak on the path, the kind of sound that didn't wake her anymore.

Peter walked beside Papa, hands in his coat pockets. The air smelled of damp grass and woodsmoke from a chimney down the lane. Wood burning somewhere. Someone making breakfast. The world continuing. Their footsteps weren't quite in sync, but neither of them minded. Papa felt the weight of it all like a physical thing — not in his chest, exactly, but in his bones. In the way his shoulders carried forward. In the tiredness that wasn't just about sleep.

"She went down quick," Peter said quietly, nodding at the pram. "Must've worn herself out with all that babbling."

Papa gave a half-laugh, the kind that didn't make it past the chest. "She's been talking more lately. No real words, but… stories, maybe."

Peter smiled. "You're just hoping one of those stories ends in a nap aye."

They passed the broken fencepost by the elder tree, where the wind always felt a little colder. The fog hung in the dip of the hill beyond the garden, a low white sea in the fields. The sheep on the far slope looked like smudges.

"I barely slept, Again. I think I got maybe two hours in between feeds. I kept thinking about Heidegger's concept of thrownness — you know, being thrown into existence without consent. And I thought, that's what Tima is. Just... thrown into this world without her mother. Without consent. And I'm supposed to be the one catching her but I don't know if I'm even..." Papa said trailing off...

Peter didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"Everything's blurry," Papa continued after a beat. "Like the days don't even try to be separate anymore. They just… run together. Morning, night, feeding, crying, blinking. Repeat. No narrative structure. No arc. Just... duration."

Peter gave a small nod. "Aye. Yeah."

They reached the bench by the overgrown hedge — the one Peter had helped repair last spring. Papa stopped, resting his hands on the pram's handle, watching the mist shift like breath over the grass.

"I can't picture next week," he said.

Peter glanced sideways.

Papa's eyes stayed on the fog. "Not without her. Not properly. She made it… possible. This. All of it."

The stillness deepened. No birdsong. Just wind in the trees and the tiny ticking of cooling dew on wood.

"She made everything seem like it had a shape," Papa added. "Even when it didn't. Even when it hurt."

He looked down at Tima — her tiny sleeping face, the slight flutter of a dream behind her eyes.

"I don't know how to be a father without her," he said, almost like a confession. "She made it look possible. Like love was something you could carry in both hands and not drop."

Peter looked at Papa, his eyes on Tima, his mind stirring into some memory - like a big ol' cauldron.

---

The flat had been chaos, but warm chaos. The kind that felt alive.

She'd been standing at the window, one hand on her swollen belly, the other holding a paintbrush. The canvas on the easel was half-finished — all swirls of color, no clear subject yet, just movement. Orange bled into deep purple, shot through with streaks of something gold.

Music played from the old speaker on the shelf — Hot hot heat, of course. "When you go.. Into the middle of nowhere" She hummed along, off-key but committed, swaying slightly as she worked.

Papa had been sitting on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes and half-assembled baby furniture. An instruction manual lay open beside him, indecipherable diagrams mocking his efforts. A tiny sock — impossibly small — had fallen onto his knee.

"How," he'd said, holding up two identical-looking pieces of wood, "are these different?"

She'd turned, paintbrush still in hand, and laughed. "They're not. That's the trick. IKEA is performance art. You're not meant to succeed. You're meant to experience.

"I'm experiencing rage."

"Good. That's part of the design."

She'd come over, settled beside him with a small grunt, hand still on her belly. Up close, she smelled like acrylic paint and that lavender lotion she always used. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

"Here," she'd said, taking one of the pieces from him. "This one has the indent on the left. That one on the right. See?"

"I see nothing."

"That's because you're thinking too hard." She'd tapped his forehead lightly with the end of the paintbrush, leaving a tiny smudge of orange. "You philosophize furniture. Just feel it."

He'd laughed despite himself. "Feel the furniture."

"Yes. Ask it what it wants to be."

"A chair?"

"See? You're learning."

She'd leaned against him, her weight warm and solid. The baby had kicked — a little flutter against his side — and she'd taken his hand, pressed it to the spot.

"There," she'd whispered. "That's her. Saying hello."

"Hello," he'd said to the bump, feeling ridiculous and tender all at once.

"Tell her something," she'd urged. "Something true."

He'd thought for a moment, hand still on her belly.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he'd said quietly. "But I'm here.."

She'd turned to look at him then, eyes bright.

"That's all anyone can promise," she'd said. "Just... being here. That's the whole thing."

The music had played on. The furniture remained unassembled. The light through the window had turned everything honey-gold.

"What color is all this then?" he'd asked, playing their game.

She'd tilted her head, considering.

"Warm amber with a thread of sky blue," she'd said. "Like hope mixed with a little bit of fear. Like standing at the edge of something huge and not knowing if you'll fly or fall."

"That's very specific."

"I'm very specific." She'd kissed his temple, leaving another tiny smudge of paint — purple this time. "You're going to be covered in colors by the end of today."

"I'm okay with that."

They'd sat there a while longer, the furniture forgotten, just breathing in the same space. The baby had kicked again — stronger this time — and they'd both felt it. A little revolution happening inside her. A person becoming.

She'd started humming again, that same tuneless melody she always made up when she was content. No structure. Just sound.

"Don't stop," he'd said.

"I won't."

---

A duck splashed loudly in the canal besides Papa and Peter,

Tima still asleep in the pram.

Peter was quiet for a long moment.

"I don't think it's about doing it the same," he said eventually. "I think it's about not letting go of the thread."

Papa looked at him.

"My dad," Peter said, "he used to take me up Snowdon. Not often. But when he did, he never talked much. Just pointed things out — rocks, birds, clouds. I thought it meant he didn't care."

He smiled, dry and tired.

"But now, I think he just didn't know how to say it."

Papa sat down beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. Tima stirred but didn't wake.

"I still feel him sometimes," Peter said. "When I walk certain places. When I fix something."

Papa nodded. "Mine too. There was always a distance. He wasn't… open. But he loved me. And somehow I feel it more now."

Another silence. But this one was companionable.

"She'll feel it too," Peter said after a while, nodding toward Tima. "Even if you don't always say it right. Even if you're not ready."

Papa breathed out, slow and long, and leaned back.

Peter bumped his shoulder lightly against his.

"You're doing it, you know."

"Doing what?"

"Being her dad." Peter paused, then added, "And you're not doing it alone. You've got us. Me, Steph, Eira. We're her people. Family doesn't have to look one way, does it? We choose each other. That's what makes it real."

Papa didn't reply. He just looked down at the little sleeping form in the pram and rested one hand gently on the worn duck-patterned quilt. Found family. The phrase settled over him like a blanket. Yes. That was it exactly.

---

The day passed slowly like that.

In the evening the fire had been coaxed back to life. Not roaring — just enough to keep the edge off the room's stillness. Afternoon light came in pale and slanted, brushing the old floorboards in long bars of warmth.

Tima lay on her back atop a folded blanket, just close enough to the hearth to feel the flicker of heat. Her legs moved in slow, lazy kicks, little hands reaching for air, grabbing nothing and everything. Every now and then she made a small noise — half-giggle, half-cough — like she was surprised the world kept going.

Peter sat on the couch, half-propped with a cushion. A book rested on the armrest beside him, unread. He stared into the fire like it was a radio between stations.

Papa lay curled on the rug, his head resting against Peter's leg, eyes open but far away.

They didn't speak for a long while. Just the crackle of flame, the soft thump of Tima's heels against the quilt.

Peter's hand found the back of his head, rested there gently.

"I think… sometimes we plant memories in each other before we even know what they're for."

No reply came — not in words. Just the slight weight of Papa leaning a little more into him.

Tima gave a little sneeze. Peter smiled.

The room dimmed by a shade as a cloud passed. A breeze moved the curtain by the window. The warmth of the fire, the weight of the day — it all settled like wool over the quiet.

Papa's breathing deepened. Slowed.

Peter looked down and saw that his eyes were closed now, lashes still a little damp at the corners.

He didn't shift. Didn't speak.

Just kept his hand on Papa's head.

Outside, a jay called once. The fire popped softly.

Tima kicked again and began to hum something tuneless, a new song no one had taught her. A song of light and ceiling and half-remembered dreams.

The moment held — not in grandness, but in quiet grace.

Like something true, gently tucked away.

---

The phone buzzed against the counter, low and insistent.

Peter glanced down at it, then at the room. Papa was still asleep, curled lightly on the rug, breath steady. Tima had wriggled herself into a different angle of existence — one foot now poking out from the folds of her blanket, arms flung out like a starfish mid-dream.

He slipped into the kitchen, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

"Hey," he said, answering the call.

"Hey," came Steph's voice, a bit scratchy — tired, but warm. Like honey that had been sitting in the sun. "You free?"

"Sort of," he said. "Papa's finally down. Tima too. You caught the quiet window."

"Miracle," she muttered. Then, lighter: "Just a quick check-in. Had a chat with Carys this morning — she's got a new placement. Pediatrics. She's thrilled. Probably terrified, too. You know how she gets."

Peter smiled. "She'll be good. She listens. That's half the work right there."

"She does," Steph said. There was a pause, something hovering. The kind of pause that holds a question before asking it. "How's he doing? Really?"

Peter leaned back against the counter, eyes flicking to the kettle, then to the half-sliced apple on the cutting board. "Rough day. But… I told him a story. About my dad. Snowdon. He didn't say much, but he listened. Then he just… fell asleep."

Steph was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had that soft weight to it. The kind that came from years of holding other people's grief alongside her own.

"Still feels like everything's racing," she said at last. "Work, family, grief. Like the track's moving faster than I can run it. And I keep thinking — the wheel turns whether we're ready or not. Seasons don't wait for permission." She paused. "Some days I wake up and I'm just... grey. You know? Not sad, not happy. Just existing."

Peter nodded, even though she couldn't see it. "Aye. I know that feeling. Grey-blue, maybe."

Another pause.

"You know what he said earlier?" Peter added. "That he doesn't know how to be a father without her. That she made it feel possible."

Steph's voice dropped. "He's not wrong."

"No. But I think he's still doing it. Even if he can't see it yet."

Silence stretched a moment between them — not uncomfortable. Just full.

Then Peter, a little impulsively: "What if you all got away for a bit?"

Steph blinked audibly. "What?"

"Just a few days. You, him, Tima. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere wild. No inbox. No schedule. Just… space."

"I don't know, Pete. He's not ready."

Peter exhaled slowly. "It's not about being ready. It's about breathing."

Steph didn't answer right away. Somewhere in the background, a kettle whistled. She must've taken it off the hob without thinking, because the sound cut abruptly.

"Where?" she asked, cautious but no longer dismissing it.

He smiled. "Snowdon."

A long beat. Then, softly: "You think we could?"

"I think you need it," Peter said. "All of you. And he'll go if you go. You always knew how to get him moving."

Steph gave a small laugh — not bright, not bitter. Just real.

"Okay," she said. "Let's try."

Peter nodded to himself. "Good. I'll help get you ready. Pack the right things. Sort supplies."

"Pete—" her voice gentled, "thank you."

He looked through the crack in the door at the two sleeping shapes, still and safe in the warmth of the living room.

"Anytime," he said.

They hung up.

Peter stayed in the kitchen a while longer, watching the steam curl from the mug he hadn't made yet.

Something about the room — about the whole cottage — felt steadier than it had that morning. Not fixed. But leaning, just slightly, toward something like hope.

---

The kitchen was cool but not unkind. Early morning light came through in pale stripes, catching the edge of a mug, the curve of a spoon. The kettle hummed low — not a boil yet, just thinking about it.

Peter stood at the counter, spreading jam on toast with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times before dawn. Behind him, the radio crackled softly — weather forecast, traffic, someone complaining about roadworks near Cwmbran.

At the small table, Eira sat strapped into her booster seat, legs swinging, one hand gripping a plastic cup of milk like it might make a run for it. She was two and a half, all wild curls and serious eyebrows. She wore mismatched socks — one with ducks, one with dinosaurs — and a jumper with porridge on the sleeve.

"No," she said, firmly.

Peter didn't turn around. "I haven't even asked yet."

"Still no."

He smiled into the toast. "Fair enough."

He brought the plate over and set it down. She eyed it with deep suspicion, as if jam might be a trap.

"Is it strawberry?"

"Raspberry."

She scowled. "I wanted strawberry."

"You said raspberry yesterday."

"That was yesterday." She picked up the toast, sniffed it like a detective, then took the tiniest bite known to humankind. "It's okay."

Peter poured himself tea, leaning against the counter. "High praise."

Eira kicked her legs harder, a rhythm only she understood. "Where's Tima going?"

"Up a mountain. With Steph and Papa."

Her nose wrinkled. "Why?"

Peter thought about it. "Because sometimes people need to go up to come back down better."

She processed this with the gravity of a judge. "Is Tima going in the backpack?"

"Probably."

"I want to go in a backpack."

"You're too big now, cariad. You're practically a giant."

She held up one hand, measuring herself against the air. "This big?"

"At least."

She took another bite, thoughtful. Then, with her mouth still half-full: "Can I have a biscuit?"

"After breakfast."

"This is breakfast."

"After you finish it."

Eira sighed like she carried the weight of centuries. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

She squinted at him, testing for cracks in his resolve. Finding none, she returned to her toast with theatrical reluctance.

Peter sipped his tea and watched her. She had his stubbornness, her mum's sharpness, and some inexplicable third thing that was entirely her own — a kind of feral logic that made perfect sense if you tilted your head just right.

She looked up suddenly. "Is he sad?"

Peter paused. "A bit. Yeah."

"Because of she left?"

"Yeah."

Eira nodded, solemn. "Mum says people go away sometimes but they don't stop being real."

Peter's throat tightened slightly. "Aye, your mum is smart."

"She gave me a biscuit before breakfast once." Eira tested..

"Revolutionary behavior." Peter shot back.

Eira grinned, gap-toothed and victorious. Then she returned to the toast, swinging her legs in that unstoppable rhythm.

Peter rinsed his mug, set it in the rack. Outside, a blackbird started up — sharp and insistent, like it had opinions about the morning.

"You'll be good today right?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"Eira."

"Probably."

"Eira."

She looked up, eyes wide and innocent. "Yes."

"Thank you."

She took the last bite of toast, crumbs tumbling down her front like soft snow. "Can I have two biscuits?"

Peter raised an eyebrow.

She held up two fingers. "I was very good."

"One."

"One and a half?"

"One whole biscuit. Final offer."

She considered this with the focus of a union negotiator. Then nodded, satisfied. "Deal."

Peter fetched the tin, handed her a single digestive. She took it with both hands like it was treasure.

"You're tough," she said, munching.

"I learned from the best," he said, kissing the top of her head.

She leaned into him for just a moment — small and warm and entirely herself.

Then she wriggled free, biscuit in hand, ready to conquer the next five minutes.

Peter watched her go, heard her start singing something tuneless in the other room. A song about ducks, maybe. Or dinosaurs. Hard to say.

He finished his tea in the quiet.

The kettle clicked off.

Outside, the world was just beginning.

---

Peter crouched at the back of the car, wrestling with a stubborn strap on the baby carrier. One knee in the gravel, he gave it an authoritative tug, then a second, gentler one for good measure.

"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Carrier's secure. Snacks—check. Waterproofs—double check. Emergency marshmallows—triple check."

Steph appeared from the front door with Tima in her arms, bundled in layers despite the gentle chill. Her sunhat was slightly crooked, and she was gurgling triumphantly at the rising mist like it was her personal fanfare.

Papa followed close behind, wearing a too-new-looking backpack and the expression of a man who hadn't camped since Scouts and never voluntarily.

"Do I look like I know what I'm doing?" he asked Peter, shifting his weight.

Peter glanced at him and gave a once-over. "You look like a man who will deeply regret forgetting the chocolate if it comes to that."

Steph smirked. "Too late. I packed it."

Peter opened the side pocket of her rucksack like a magician unveiling a trick. "Here. Left side. Swiss. You're practically invincible now."

Papa gave a huff that might've been a laugh, or a sigh. "What if she hates it?" He nodded toward Tima, who was currently trying to eat the strap of her sunhat.

"She won't," Steph said firmly. "She loves the wind. And noises. And hills. And existing."

"Exactly," Peter added. "Babies are basically just very tiny druids. They like mossy things and mystery."

Papa raised an eyebrow, but he couldn't help the small smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Peter reached out and took Tima for a moment, lifting her high above his head so she could see over the misty fields. Her feet kicked wildly.

"You've got one job," he told her solemnly. "Look cute and keep morale up."

"She's got two jobs," Steph corrected, strapping on her pack. "Look cute, and hold on to her socks."

Tima immediately kicked one off.

"Hopeless," Peter said, kissing her cheek as he handed her back to Papa. "You'll be fine."

He adjusted Papa's strap with a practiced tug, then stepped back and nodded.

"Bring me back a stone," Peter said.

Papa looked at him. "A stone?"

"Yeah," Peter said, already walking toward the cottage door. "One with a story in it."

Tima gurgled in agreement, gripping Papa's hoodie string like it held the secrets of the mountain.

The mist began to lift, just slightly, as they turned toward the car.

---

Just about 6 hours later that included a few stops for snacks and changes, they pulled into the carpark directly opposite the Snowdon Mountain Railway station in the village of Llanberis, aiming for the Llanberis Path up the mountain.

The gravel crunched softly under their boots as they started upward.

Tima rode high on Papa's chest in the soft wrap, her small hands tucked close, her hat slipping sideways as she stared at the sky with reverence. A babble escaped her lips now and then — like she was conversing with the wind or offering commentary on the clouds.

"First review is in," Steph said, glancing at her. "She says it's scenic."

Papa gave a quiet chuckle, adjusting the straps of the carrier. "Scenic and vaguely damp."

The ground was soft beneath their feet — earth still wet from the morning rain, moss thick and forgiving under their boots. The path curled upward through gorse and low scrub, the mist not quite burned away, everything existing in that grey-blue space where the world felt both enormous and intimate at once.

Steph walked ahead a few steps, her hood half-up, a little puff of condensation on her breath visible in the cold air. "She'll like the sheep. I was obsessed with them at her age."

"Obsessed?" Papa asked, ducking a branch.

"I used to wave at them like they were royalty," she replied. "Every single one. On every single walk."

Papa smiled at the thought. "How many days did that add to the hike?"

"Hours," Steph laughed. "My parents were endlessly patient. Or endlessly frustrated. One of the two."

A patch of mud caught Papa off guard, and he half-slid, catching himself with a surprised grunt. Tima squeaked in delight, clearly thrilled with the sudden lurch. She made a triumphant sound — *ehhhhh!* — as if to say: *I approve of this chaos.*

Steph turned, smirking. "Graceful."

"Born for the mountains," he muttered, checking her little hat was still in place. It was. Sideways.

Tima reached out one small hand toward Steph, babbling a string of sounds that might have been a greeting or a song or perhaps instructions on proper hiking technique. Her fingers grasped at the air like she was trying to grab the very mist around them.

Steph reached back and let Tima's hand close around her finger. "Yes, yes, I see it too. Very mist-like. Very grey. Very damp." She glanced back at Papa. "She's building her critical vocabulary."

"She's definitely narrating something," Papa said. "No idea what."

They kept going.

Conversation came and went in gentle tides — gear, boots, tea flasks, that weird news article Steph had read about a sheep that had survived three weeks on a Welsh cliff. Papa told her about an old music venue he'd played at once, how the acoustics were so strange you could hear the conversation in the back alley through the speakers. Nothing heavy. Just walking talk. Breath and movement and the beginning of something that wasn't the inside of a cottage.

The path narrowed, flanked by drystone wall on one side and wild thicket on the other. The stones were grey with age and weather, lichen painting them in soft orange and sage green. Tima let out a long string of sounds — vowels and nonsense consonants — her voice rising above the wind like a song only she knew. She was playing with the sounds, repeating them, building on them.

"She's narrating the journey," Steph said, turning to smile at them.

"Or cursing in some ancient baby tongue," Papa added. "Either way, she's committed."

The wind shifted slightly, carrying with it the smell of stone and damp earth and something green and growing. It was cold on their faces, but not bitter.

Papa looked down at Tima, who was making a soft cooing sound now, almost musical. He thought about Peter — back at the cottage with Eira, probably arguing about breakfast with the determination of a tiny revolutionary. Peter had waved them off with characteristic firmness. "Go. Be away. Eira and I have projects." The man was steady as bedrock. Always had been.

"How's Peter with Eira?" Steph asked, as if reading his thought.

"He's better with her than I am with Tima," Papa said quietly. "More... confident."

"He's had practice," Steph said. "And he doesn't blame himself."

Papa didn't answer, but something in his shoulders shifted slightly.

When they stopped for water, Steph took Tima while Papa stretched his arms and looked up the winding path. His legs were starting to feel it — the climb building in his calves, the altitude pressing gently on his lungs. But it wasn't unpleasant. It was real. The only thing his body was doing right now was moving upward.

"How far?" he asked.

Steph shrugged, bouncing Tima gently. "Far enough that we forget to count."

"So about five minutes more than I can manage."

"So far you're doing brilliantly. No complaints."

"Give it time."

Steph handed Tima back to him, and the baby immediately began to fidget with the zip on his jacket, making a small sound of investigation. Uh-uh-uh-uh. Like she was checking to make sure it still worked. Like she was taking inventory of the world.

The wind picked up slightly, brushing the tops of the trees and tugging at their hoods. Above them, a bird called — something sharp and brief, answering another bird further up the mountain.

"That's encouraging," Papa said. "The mountain has birds.."

"Wait until you see the view from the top," Steph said. "It's worth every step."

They started walking again — slower now, the slope a little steeper. But their rhythm had found them.

Papa noticed, with a kind of surprise, that he wasn't thinking about her. The absence. He was thinking about his daughter's tiny hand on his zip, about the sound of Steph's breathing, about the exact shade of green on those lichened stones. The loss was still there — it always would be — but for these moments, it was just background, like Steph had said. Like muscle memory. There, but not demanding.

Tima made another sound, softer now. Almost like she was settling into the rhythm of walking. Her small weight against his chest felt less like burden and more like ballast. Something holding him in place.

They sat on a flat stretch of stone just off the path. Tima was nestled in Papa's lap, cheeks pink from the chill, her hands busy tugging gently at the edge of a fern that had grown stubbornly through the cracks.

"She's a botanist now," Steph said softly, kneeling to refill the flask from her pack.

Papa brushed a bit of fluff from Tima's hat, then looked out — not at the view, but through it. The mist was thinner here, and below them the valley was just beginning to show itself — patches of field, the suggestion of roads, the world they'd climbed up from.

"I don't know what this feeling is," he said, voice low. "Like… I'm getting further away from her, day by day. But somehow also closer. Like she's becoming more a part of everything. The trees. This wind. That laugh."

Tima made a small hiccup of a giggle, the fern bouncing with her. She'd managed to pull a frond free, and she studied it with the intensity of a scholar, turning it this way and that in her small fingers. She stuck it in her mouth, then removed it, then stuck it back. Research was important work.

Steph didn't speak right away. She zipped the flask, handed him a warm cup, then sat beside him with her knees drawn up. The stone beneath them was cold even through their waterproofs. She didn't seem to mind. She had a way of settling into discomfort like it was just another weather pattern.

"I think that's what memory does," she said eventually. "It stretches in both directions. Makes space where there wasn't any before. Like roots and branches — the deeper down we go, the wider the love spreads out."

He nodded but didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the horizon.

Steph looked down at her boots, fiddled with the seam of her glove. For a moment she was quiet, really quiet, in a way that felt important.

"It's not the same," she said, barely above the breeze, "but I still feel it. Like background static. My brother. Almost ten years now. And sometimes I still reach for the phone."

Papa glanced over, surprised. She rarely spoke of him.

"What would you say?" he asked. Not "I'm sorry." Just... what would you say?

She smiled, sad but not broken. The kind of smile that had learned to hold pain without collapsing under it.

"I'd probably tell him about Eira," she said quietly. "How she's got his eyebrows — that serious look when she's thinking hard about something ridiculous. Like whether dinosaurs would like jam." She paused. "He used to do that. Get dead serious about the most absurd things. Once spent twenty minutes explaining why penguins were technically dragons in disguise."

Papa gave a small laugh despite himself.

Steph's voice gentled. "Cyclist. Fit as anything. Then one morning — aneurysm. Just... gone. No warning. No goodbye. He was supposed to come over for Sunday roast."

The wind moved through the grass around them.

"I set the table for him anyway," she added. "For weeks. Peter stopped saying anything about it. Just... let me."

She picked up a stone, turned it over in her hand, studying its grey surface like it held messages.

Papa watched her, saying nothing, just holding space.

"Some days I wake up and I've forgotten he's gone," Steph said. "Just for a second. Then I remember and it's like falling through ice all over again." She paused. "But most days now... it's just the ache. Muscle memory. Like carrying a stone in your pocket. You forget it's there, then you reach in and — oh. Right. This."

She held up the stone she'd been turning.

Tima made a small sound, shifting in Papa's arms. He stroked her back gently.

"Doesn't get easier does it?" he asked.

"No," Steph said honestly. "But you get stronger. Doesn't shrink, doesn't go away — you just grow around it. Like a tree growing around barbed wire. It's still there, cutting in sometimes, but the tree keeps growing anyway."

She looked at him directly now.

"What I'm saying is — she's not gone from you. She's just... distributed differently. In Tima, In every decision you make that's shaped by having loved her." She gestured at the mountain around them. "She's here. In this. In you choosing to climb when it would be easier to stay still."

Papa's eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying. Just letting it be there.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," he said.

"None of us do," Steph replied. "We're all just walking uphill with stones in our pockets, pretending we know where we're going."

She reached out, squeezed his shoulder once.

"But you're not walking alone."

Papa listened. Tima had grown quiet too, tired from climbing and from the work of serious botanical investigation. She was settling into that drowsy baby state where the world was just colors and soft edges.

"How old would he be?" Papa asked.

"Thirty-seven," Steph said. "Always made terrible jokes. The kind that made you groan, but you'd also repeat them to other people because they stuck with you."

She reached again for the fern, pulling another small piece free with practiced gentleness.

"She doesn't know how strange this all is," Papa said, watching Tima's eyelids growing heavy.

Steph leaned back on her hands, watching the clouds shift above. "Maybe she does," she said. "In her way. Babies feel everything. They're like emotional seismographs. Little tuning forks. She probably knows her life is different than other babies. Knows she doesn't have everyone she should have. But right now, in this moment, she's on a mountain with her father who loves her, and the sun is trying to come out, and there's fern to investigate. And that — that's a pretty good version of life."

Tima let out a long, contented sigh and leaned her head back against his chest, the fern frond still clutched in her small fist like a prize she'd won from the earth itself.

They sat like that for a while. Not needing to say more. Just breath, and breeze, and the hum of something bigger than words passing gently through them. The sound of the wind in the gorse. A distant bird call. Tima's breathing, growing slower, deeper. The two of them — three of them — held in the quiet weight of the mountain.

---

Steph crouched over the small burner, stirring slowly with the handle of a wooden spoon that had clearly seen better days. The scent of lentils, garlic, and something vaguely herby drifted up in lazy spirals. A metal mug of tea sat beside her knee, steaming gently.

Papa sat nearby, his back against a rock, Tima bundled against his chest in layers of fleece and her sleepy daffodil hat. Her breath was warm through his jacket, one small hand tucked just inside the zip, fingers curled like a comma. She was already halfway to sleep.

"She hated silence," Steph said suddenly, without looking up.

Papa raised an eyebrow.

She clarified. "She couldn't stand when the room went too still. Always had music on. Even if it was just low. Or humming. Or those awful old soundtracks she played when she cooked. Like the world needed a score, you know?"

Papa gave a soft exhale. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

"She used to hum in minor keys just to make the dinner taste dramatic," he said. "Everything was a performance. Everything had music."

Steph smiled at the pot. "Exactly."

He looked up at the darkening sky, a faint smudge of violet still clinging to the west. A single star blinked above the ridge. Then another.

"She said she couldn't stay mad at me if I sang to her," he said. "Even if it was bad."

"Was it bad?"

"Oh, dreadful."

Steph passed him a warm bowl. "She always said you had a voice like wet flannel and stubborn hope."

Papa chuckled, low in his chest. "That sounds about right."

For a while, they just ate. The only sound was the soft clink of spoons and the hush of wind moving through grass.

Then, after they'd finished, and Tima had begun to breathe slow and deep, Papa reached for his phone.

"I found this the other night," he said. "One of her playlists. Just… background stuff she used to play when she worked in the garden."

He tapped the screen. A faint buzz, and then a slow acoustic guitar slipped into the night. Nothing polished — just a warm strum and a voice that felt like old denim and dusk. The kind of song you didn't realize you remembered until the second verse.

Steph didn't say anything. She just leaned her head lightly on his shoulder.

The stars thickened above them.

The breeze had died down, and the trees above made a kind of hush, like a soft breath held in reverence.

Tima stirred once, murmured something wordless in sleep, then settled again.

Papa's hand rested lightly on her back.

The song played on.

Not loud.

Not needing to be.

Just present.

And the silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was full of breath and memory.

Full of her.

Full of them.

They broke camp in near silence, the kind that doesn't ask for words. Tima yawned against Papa's chest, still tucked in the wrap, her little hat pulled down over her ears. She blinked at the grey world like it was a dream she hadn't quite left.

Steph packed the burner and the empty bowls into her rucksack with the practiced rhythm of someone used to movement. She handed Papa a warm bottle for Tima and a square of oatcake wrapped in a napkin.

"Fuel," she said, nodding toward both of them.

He took it, murmured a quiet thanks, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

They started down the trail. It was still early enough that the mist hadn't burned off, and the valley below stretched like a pale sheet, soft and open. The earth was damp, but the rocks were warm underfoot. The wind had gentled overnight.

Papa took the lead this time, Tima snug against him, her little hands tucked beneath her chin. Steph followed a few paces behind, humming something under her breath — not for them, exactly, just for the rhythm of walking.

They didn't talk much. The silence wasn't heavy. It was steady. Honest.

Midway down, they paused where the ridge opened to a clearing — a view that, on a clear day, would show half of Gwynedd. Today, it was a field of clouds.

A bird called from the gorse — a sharp, sweet note that cut through the hush.

Tima stirred.

She looked up suddenly, eyes wide, and reached toward the sound with one small fist raised skyward.

Papa followed her gaze, his mouth half-open in surprise. The smile that came next wasn't just for her. It wasn't for the bird, either. It was something quieter. Less performative. Like a piece of sunlight coming through woodsmoke.

He kissed the top of her head without thinking.

Steph, catching up, saw the moment and didn't interrupt. She just stood beside them and looked out into the brightening fog.

"I think we're halfway to being mountain people," she said lightly.

Papa laughed — a real one, short but warm.

"I'll need better socks."

Tima babbled something that might've been agreement. Or a story only she understood.

The trail curled on beneath them, winding through lichen and stone. They followed it, boots soft on moss, breath visible in the morning air.

They didn't rush.

And it felt — not easy, but possible.

The car came into view like an old promise — a little silver speck waiting faithfully at the edge of the woods. Steph groaned as she dropped her pack, stretching her back and shoulders with exaggerated effort.

"Remind me to get a proper bed next time," she muttered, rotating her neck.

Papa laughed softly, unbuckling the wrap around his chest and lifting Tima out with practiced care. She was warm and pink-cheeked, smelling faintly of milk and fire smoke. Her eyes fluttered open, then shut again.

He sat her gently in the front seat while he fetched a clean nappy and a bag from the boot. Steph raised an eyebrow. "You're brave."

"Needs must," he muttered, awkwardly crouching and maneuvering tiny legs and tabs with far more gentleness than skill.

Steph busied herself sorting the gear into the back. She handed him a spare wipe before he asked for one, and he gave her a grateful nod.

Tima giggled mid-change, and Papa grinned despite himself. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"

They climbed in — Papa in the passenger seat, Steph behind the wheel, Tima bundled in back. The doors closed with a soft thud. The heater ticked on.

Steph turned the key.

The engine coughed to life, and with it — the radio.

Static, then music.

"You with the sad eyes…"

They didn't speak.

Steph glanced sideways. Waiting.

He met her eyes. Gave a small, steady nod.

The car pulled away, tires crunching on gravel. The song carried them out of the trees.

Not closure.

Continuing.

---

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and something almost resembling coffee.

Papa stood at the counter, one hand steadying Tima on his hip, the other attempting to spread jam with a butter knife that had seen better days. She was babbling her usual morning commentary — a mix of vowels and what might have been opinions on the weather.

"I know," he said to her. "Apricot wasn't your first choice. It wasn't mine either."

She grabbed at his shirt collar, tugging with the focused determination of someone conducting important research.

Peter appeared in the doorway, Eira trailing behind him in mismatched pajamas, carrying a stuffed sheep under one arm.

"You're up early," Peter said, surprised.

Papa shrugged. "Tima had opinions about 6am. Loud ones."

Peter moved to the kettle, flicking it on. "Fair."

Eira climbed onto a chair and studied Papa with the seriousness of a judge. "Did you bring me a rock?"

Papa blinked, then remembered. He fished in his jacket pocket — still hanging by the door — and pulled out a small grey stone, smooth and cold.

"From near the top," he said, handing it to her.

She turned it over in her hands, nodded with approval. "It's a good rock."

"High praise," Peter said, pouring tea.

Papa settled into the chair opposite, Tima still on his lap. She reached for the toast, and he broke off a small piece, let her gum it into submission.

The kitchen was quiet — not the heavy quiet of grief, but the soft quiet of morning. The kind where things were still waking up.

Peter set a mug in front of Papa. "You sleep?"

"A bit. More than usual."

"Mountain tired?"

"Maybe." Papa looked down at Tima, who was now investigating the texture of jam with scientific focus. "Or just... tired in a different way."

Peter sat, sipping his own tea. Eira had started building something with the rock and a handful of spoons, narrating softly to the sheep.

"You okay?" Peter asked, the question simple but real.

Papa thought about it.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But I think... I might be starting to learn how to not know. If that makes sense."

Peter smiled. "It does."

Through the window, the morning light came in pale gold. The world outside was waking — birds starting up, the rustle of wind in the trees, someone's car starting down the lane.

Tima made a small sound — almost a word, not quite.

Papa looked at her, really looked. At her grey eyes, her small fingers still sticky with jam, the way her hair stuck up at odd angles no matter what he did.

"I think she has her laugh," he said quietly.

Peter glanced up.

"The way she giggles," Papa continued. "When something surprises her. It's... it's the same."

Peter didn't say anything. Just nodded.

Papa kissed the top of Tima's head, breathed her in — milk and sleep and the faint smell of mountain air still clinging to her clothes.

"I'm going to try," he said, more to himself than anyone. "To be here. To not... disappear into it."

"You already are," Peter said.

Eira looked up from her spoon architecture. "Can we go to the park?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "It's 6:30 in the morning, cariad."

"So?"

Papa laughed — a real one, sudden and surprised. It felt strange in his chest. But not wrong.

Tima laughed too, just because he had. An echo. A beginning.

Outside, the day continued.

And so did they.

The end.