They got off at a small station with a crooked sign and no one waiting on the platform. Fog curled around the tracks. A robin sat on the fence post by the exit and watched them pass with one bright eye, as if deciding whether they were worth a song.

The trail started just past an old metal gate, rusted orange and cool to the touch.

The Ebbw flowed beside them now, clear and bubbling over small stones, its banks stitched with moss and bramble. Birds darted through the birch branches above, calling to one another like old friends catching up after a long absence.

Tima walked between them, Stick-Stick in one hand, the other clutching her hat against the breeze. "Does the river know we're here?"

Peter nodded. "Oh, she's watching."

Papa smirked. "She's wondering if we'll get our boots wet."

They passed a narrow wooden bridge. The planks creaked just enough to make Tima freeze mid-step. Below, the water moved in slow green loops, carrying sticks and foam and the reflection of clouds.

"What if it breaks?"

Papa crouched beside her. "Then Peter goes first. He's heavier."

"I'm full of wisdom, not weight," Peter protested.

The bridge held, of course, and on the other side, the trees opened slightly. A mossy embankment sloped down toward a quiet bend in the river, where the current slowed and the water turned dark and smooth, pooling around the roots of an old alder that leaned out over the bank like it was trying to drink.

They sat for a moment. The world was still—just the river's hush and the quiet hum of late autumn insects. Somewhere behind them, a woodpecker tapped a rhythm into the silence.

Peter reached into his coat and pulled out a small flask. "For warming the knees," he said, offering it to Papa.

Tima tugged at Papa's sleeve. "Will you tell me the story now?"

"Which one?"

"The one from last night. About the big hill and the bees."

Peter's eyes lit up. "Ah! The Twmp. Twmbarlwm."

He leaned forward, poking his walking stick into the soil like a staff. The mist had thinned enough now that they could almost see the ridgeline to the south, where the old hill fort sat against the sky like a crown worn by the earth itself.

"They say there's a giant buried up there. Maybe even Bran himself."

Tima's eyes grew wide. "A giant?!"

Papa nodded. "Bran the Blessed. A king. A warrior. A brother."

"He was so big," Peter added, "he used himself as a bridge when the army couldn't cross the river. Just laid himself down, like this—" He sprawled dramatically across a log. "Said, 'The man who would lead must become the bridge.'"

Tima giggled. "Did it work?"

"Oh aye," Peter said, sitting up and brushing bark from his coat. "But it cost him, too. That's what stories like his remind us. That strength isn't just how loud you shout—it's what you're willing to carry for others."