He said it simply, the way you say things you've thought about for a long time—and Tima took it in the same way, without rushing, letting the weight of it settle like a leaf.

They fell into a quiet rhythm again. The river curved onward. Light broke through the trees in dusty shafts, catching in Tima's curls as she walked ahead, Stick-Stick held high like a banner.

Papa watched her and whispered, "She walks lighter than we ever did."

Peter hummed. "Maybe that's the point."

They walked through the hollow of the afternoon.

The light shifted—no longer gold, but softer, like the sky was remembering something old. Above, the trees stretched tall and spare, their last yellow leaves spinning slowly down to join the quiet forest floor. Every so often, the Ebbw peeked through the brambles, catching sunlight on her back and slipping on, whispering.

Tima trailed a little behind now, hopping from rock to rock where the path broke apart. Stick-Stick tapped the way ahead with a kind of solemn ceremony. She was beginning to tire, though she'd never admit it—her jumps a fraction shorter, her landings a little heavier—but her eyes were still wide and hungry for every corner of the path.

Peter, ahead, kept talking. "Used to be mills down this way, you know. Long before the war. You'd hear them before you saw 'em—water turning wheels, iron on iron, hammers ringing out like clocks that didn't care what time it was."

Papa raised an eyebrow. "You worked in one?"

Peter laughed. "Not quite that old, thanks. But me Taid did. Had arms like ash trees, that man. Hands rough as a churchyard wall. But gentle, mind—never once raised his voice except to sing."

Tima tilted her head. "Did the river like him?"

Peter slowed, thoughtful. "Not at first. He used to shout at it, curse it for freezing solid in winter, flooding in spring. But by the time he got old, he just sat and listened. Said the river didn't shout back—it just waited for you to quiet down."

Papa glanced at the water. "Sounds familiar."

They came to a bend where a crooked stone sat half-buried in moss—part of an old foundation maybe, or the broken shoulder of a forgotten wall. There was something deliberate about the way it sat, as though someone had placed it there on purpose, centuries ago, and the earth had simply accepted it.

Tima sat on it, pulling a small oat bar from her coat. "This stone is warm."

Peter tapped it with his stick. "That's because it remembers the sun. Stones are slow, love, but not forgetful."

Tima turned her head. "What does the river remember?"

Peter and Papa both paused, caught by the question. It was the kind of question that only children ask honestly—the kind that adults learn to dress up in cleverness until the real thing underneath is lost.

Papa knelt beside her. "It remembers feet. Steps. Stories."

Peter added, "And songs. Lots of songs."