The light in the room was soft, like a whisper trying not to wake the world too quickly.
Outside the window, the grey sky was painted in smudges of silver and early blue, and the branches of the sycamore tree reached like sleepy dancers toward the morning. The air still smelled of last night's storm—wet earth, old wood, and something electric that lingered in the quiet.
Tima lay curled beneath the patchwork duvet in Papa's bed, the familiar weight of Boe the Bear half-slumped on her arm, Hoppy the Hippo tangled near her knees. The thunder had come loudly in the night—booming and bright, like the clouds had stomped across the roof with big boots on—and when it shook the glass of her bedroom window, she had slipped out of bed and into Papa's room without a word.
Now, the storm had gone. But the world still felt wrapped in its hush.
She watched the ceiling. Shadows moved. They looked like... like things. Dragons? Maybe birds. One looked like a boat. Then it became a shoe.
The room smelled like storm still—rain and electricity mixed with the safe smell of Papa, like tea and old wood and home. She breathed it in, holding the smell inside her like a secret.
Then she closed her eyes. When your eyes shut, is it night? Is it still morning?
It was still morning. She knew that.
The thunder had been so loud. So angry-loud. Was thunder angry? Did clouds get angry at stars?
She remembered whispering into the dark—when Papa was still sleeping and she was alone in her room. "Don't be loud. Don't scare," she had whispered. Just like that. Very small whisper, like her words were fragile.
But then Papa had appeared in her doorway, dark-soft against the dark. "Come on, daffodil," he'd said, voice rough with sleep. And she had run to him, and now here she was, in his bed, where the blanket was heavy and warm like being held. She could feel his arm, steady beside her. His breathing was still slow—sleeping breathing.
A little sigh escaped her as she snuggled deeper beneath the covers, the weight of the patchwork duvet like a hug that wouldn't let go. The blanket was warm where Papa's arm still rested nearby.
Papa stirred, stretching with a quiet groan. His eyes peeked open, then closed again.
"Bore da, little one?" he murmured, voice low and still halfway inside a dream—the Welsh words coming naturally as they always did in the morning.
Tima giggled, very small. "You always say that!"
His lips curled into a smile, eyes still closed. "Mornings sneak up."
"This one tiptoed," Tima said. She sat up a little, careful not to jostle Papa too much. Her hair was all messy, all sticking up in three directions like it was pointing at invisible things.
Papa opened one eye, looking at her with sleepy amusement. "Your hair agrees with you."