The trail opened out near the top, just past the lookout point where the forest thinned and the sky returned in full. You could see the backs of the hills from here, folded like sleeping giants under the clouds. The valley spread below them—patchwork of fields in brown and green, a ribbon of the River Ebbw threading silver through the landscape like a vein of light, winding past the cottage and toward towns you could almost name if you tried. This was Wales—this valley specifically. Risca. Home to miners and families, now home to them.

The group gathered at a cluster of stumps and a mossy bench worn smooth by years of walkers just like them, just like this. The thermoses came out, and steam curled up again into the cool air, bearing the scents of black tea, mint, and ginger—warm comfort in a cold place. Peter's mother poured carefully, passing each cup like it held something sacred, which perhaps it did.

Tima held her tiny enamel mug with both hands, the warmth seeping into her palms. She was tired now, the walking having caught up with her, but the view had woken something up. She looked out across the valley, at the small cottage far below that looked like something from a story.

"It's so big," she whispered.

"It is," Papa said, his arm around her. "And it's all right there."

Peter's uncle tapped his mug like a drum, a rhythm only he could hear. "I always forget the second verse," he said, though no one had mentioned singing yet.

"Doesn't matter," Peter said, his voice soft. "It's the heart of it that counts."

Peter's mother closed her eyes and began to Tidy Little House, that old Welsh hymn that lived in the country like the hills themselves. The melody wandered out over the clearing like a blessing, steady and sure. Her voice found the notes without thinking, as if her body simply remembered something her mind had learned long ago:

I’ve got a little tidy house, a little tidy house, a little tidy house. I’ve got a little tidy house, and the wind at the door every morning.

Hey dee hoe dee hey dee hey dee ho, and the wind at the door every morning.

Open the door a little, the door a little, the door a little. Open the door a little, have sight of the sea and the waves.

Hey dee hoe dee hey dee hey dee ho, have sight of the sea and the waves.

Peter joined in:

And here I will be content forever, content forever, content forever. And here I will be content forever, and the wind at the door every morning.

Hey dee hoe dee hey dee hey dee ho, and the wind at the door every morning.