Tima tried to fix her hair with both hands. It didn't work. She gave up, giggling at how silly it felt. She looked around the room, watching how the light had shifted while she'd been still. "The storm. It's gone."

Papa nodded slowly, still mostly asleep. "Left without saying goodbye."

"Loud," she said, remembering it suddenly. "Very loud. Did you hear? When I was scared? Did you know?"

"I did," he said, eyes opening fully now, his hand reaching over to gently rest on her back. "And the stars probably heard you too. I think they listened real careful to make sure you were cariad—that you were brave."

She grinned at that, a bit shy, a bit proud. She liked the idea of the stars listening.

They were quiet for a little while, both watching the ceiling as the shadows kept dancing. Papa's hand stayed on her back, warm and steady. She could hear him breathing. She matched her breathing to his, without meaning to—in and out, in and out, like they were the same person.

Then, all at once, Tima sat upright. "Oh! Oh oh! It's the daffodil day!"

Papa blinked, amused. "The what?"

She made a face like he was silly. "The yellow flowers day! The cakes day! The day with the scratchy shirt!"

He laughed now, sitting up and rubbing his face. "St David's Day, love. That's the one."

She nodded, very serious. "The daffodil day."

Papa reached over and pulled her into a gentle cuddle, kissing the top of her head. "Well, daffodil… let's go see if Peter's started burning breakfast yet."

She smiled into his shoulder. "And toast?"

"I smell toast," he said, sniffing dramatically. "And tea. And possibly… marshmallows?"

"Marshmallows for breakfast?" She frowned. "No. No, they... wait. Can they be?"

"On daffodil day," Papa replied solemnly, "anything is possible."

The cottage kitchen was alive before the sun had fully finished waking the valley.

Steam curled from the spout of the kettle in twisting ribbons, catching the light through the small window above the sink. The window was fogged from the heat, and Peter had drawn a little smiley face in it with his finger. Peter stood by the stove, humming something low and familiar—an old Welsh tune that had no beginning and no end, as if it had always lived inside mornings like this. The melody was wordless and wandering, like the song itself didn't need to get anywhere. His hands moved with practiced ease, flipping Welsh cakes on the griddle, one eye on the timing. The cakes smelled like cinnamon and butter and something warm that made the whole kitchen smell like comfort.

Tima padded in on socked feet, hair still wild, dragging Boe the Bear behind her like a sleepy squire. Papa followed, still half-buttoning his shirt, looking more awake now but not quite.