The rain had begun just after dusk. Not a storm, not a downpour—just that soft, steady sort that tapped the windows like a quiet thought and smelled faintly of moss and chimney smoke. It was the kind of rain that belonged to this valley, that knew the shape of its gutters and the grain of its slate. Inside the cottage, the fire crackled and purred. A single lamp glowed over the worn kitchen table. The rest of the room was lit by flame and memory.
Papa sat curled in the armchair by the hearth, one leg tucked beneath him, a chipped mug of tea cradled in both hands. He stared into the flames, blinking slowly, his thoughts not far off but somewhere gentle. The kind of quiet a person carries when something large is on its way toward them.
Peter stood near the counter, flipping absently through an old, water-damaged book. The title had long since faded from the spine, but he knew it by heart—Songs and Sayings of Gwent and Glyndŵr. A small pencil note on one page read: "Unproven. Lovely anyway." He'd found it years ago in an Abergavenny charity shop, tucked between a hymnal and a book on root vegetables, and had carried it with him ever since like a talisman against forgetting.
"She's probably outstubborned her professor again," Peter said, not looking up.
Papa smiled without turning. "Last time, she corrected him. In front of everyone. I thought the man was going to combust."
"Give it a few more weeks. She'll be teaching the course herself."
The fire snapped loudly, casting long shadows up the walls. Outside, the wind shifted slightly, rattling the ivy against the sill. Something about the sound made the room feel older, more rooted—as though the cottage had heard a thousand evenings just like this one and was glad to hold another.
Peter finally shut the book with a soft thwump and turned to face him. "It's getting close, then?"
Papa nodded, quiet. His hand drifted to rest over his stomach for a moment, as if it remembered the curve of hers. "We didn't plan it this way. Not exactly."
Peter raised an eyebrow, moving to the kettle. "That doesn't mean it's wrong."
"No." Papa exhaled, sipping. "No, it doesn't feel wrong. Just... big."
"Most good things are," Peter said. "You just show up. Do your part. Hope the rest sorts itself."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It held something tender, brimming. The fire shifted and settled, sending a small constellation of sparks up the flue.
Then Papa said, softly, "Her parents still haven't called."
Peter snorted gently. "Well, they wouldn't."
"They think I'm the reason her life went sideways."
"You are," Peter said. Then, grinning, "In all the best ways."
Papa laughed once, caught off guard. "Thanks."
Peter poured himself a tea, added too much milk as always, and leaned against the counter again. "They don't have to approve. You're not building your life for their comfort."