Tima sat up straighter and lifted a chip like a wand. "I solemnly swear—to always soak the chip, not just dip it."

"Proper form!" Papa beamed.

Peter leaned over, whispering to her, "You know he made that up, right?"

She nodded, whispering back, "But I like it."

Outside the window, the Ebbw drifted past, dark and smooth, leaves spinning gently on its surface. The river hummed beneath the bridge nearby, steady and quiet like an old song still being sung. A pair of gulls wheeled above the water, white against the grey, calling out to no one in particular.

Tima glanced out the window mid-bite. "Where does it go?"

"The chip?" Papa asked.

"No, silly. The river."

Papa followed her gaze. "The Ebbw? Oh, it winds all the way down through here and beyond. Joins up with the Usk, then runs out to sea."

"To the sea?" she repeated, eyes wide.

Peter leaned back, sipping his tea. "Started up in the valleys, up past Ebbw Vale."

Tima wrinkled her nose. "How long is it?"

Papa tilted his head. "Long enough to get lost in. Long enough to carry things."

Peter gave him a look over his tea cup. "You remember?"

Papa raised an eyebrow. "Remember what?"

Peter smirked. "That night. By the fire. Before she came. You asked me how long the Ebbw was. Said we'd walk it someday."

Papa blinked. A moment passed, and something softened behind his eyes—a door opening onto a room he hadn't entered in years. "Right... I did."

"And I said you, me, and the kid," Peter added with a smile. "Well, here she is."

Tima grinned proudly, holding up a chip like a sword. "I am the kid!"

"I like rivers," she said suddenly. "But I didn't know they went so far."

Papa looked back at the window, the slow current catching the last of the day's light. "They do. And they remember things along the way."

"Like what?"

Peter leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Like secrets. Old boots. Foxes crossing in the night. Bits of old songs."

Tima's eyes widened. "Can we follow it?"

"Where to?" Papa asked.

"All of it."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You up for a proper wander?"

Tima nodded vigorously. "Yes. Yes!"

Papa smiled, glancing to Peter. "Tomorrow's the weekend."

Peter lifted his cup. "Then it's settled."

The kitchen light cast warm ovals on the table where a few crayons lay scattered beside Tima's drawing of a fish wearing boots. She was already fast asleep upstairs, her belly full and cheeks flushed from the walk home.

Papa rinsed the dishes, sleeves rolled up. The quiet between him and Peter was the kind that only close friends carry well—no need to fill it, only to rest in it. Water ran over the plates and steam drifted up past his face, and for a moment the room felt the way all good kitchens do at the end of an honest day—unhurried, complete.