"You mean like singing?"

"Aye," Peter said. "The old ones. Before even my da's time. There was a song they used to hum when someone left or died, or just… drifted."

He cleared his throat, and his voice lowered into something soft and uncertain—not the voice of a performer, but of a man reaching back across years to hold a melody he'd almost dropped:

"Eira a'r dŵr, Fel amser a'r haul, Y nant yn cario enwau Na ddychwel byth mwy…"

Tima leaned against Papa. "What's that mean?"

Papa translated gently: "Snow and water, like time and sun. The stream carries names that never return."

The words hung in the air, half-wrapped in wind and the hush of trees. A leaf turned slowly past Peter's shoulder and landed on the water without a sound.

For a moment, no one moved. Even the river seemed to still, as if it too were remembering.

Papa broke the silence. "We should keep walking."

They walked slower now, past a narrow stone crossing where water pooled like glass. A heron lifted off ahead with a rush of wings, vanishing into the trees—a flash of grey that was there and then wasn't, like a thought you can't quite hold.

Tima whispered, "Did Bran walk here?"

Peter nodded. "Not this very path, maybe. But the valley? Oh yes. They say his people passed through every ridge and river between here and Harlech."

They came to a fallen tree, half across the path. Peter stepped over it carefully, but Tima climbed straight on top of it, wobbling like a tightrope walker.

"Look, I'm Bran! Big as the hills!"

Peter clutched his chest dramatically. "Mercy! She's grown!"

Papa held up a hand. "Careful, Giant Bran."

Tima jumped off and landed with a giggle. "See? Still strong."

Peter laughed, his eyes crinkling. "Aye. You'll be walking rivers long after we're just stories in the moss."

They followed the Ebbw as the light turned softer still, like the edge of a dream. The sky hinted at evening, and a few early stars peeked between the thinning clouds. The air had cooled, and the river seemed to deepen in colour, its voice dropping low as though it, too, were winding down.

Up ahead, the footpath would turn toward home.

But for now, the river walked with them. And they listened.

They reached the canal path as twilight settled like a breath held just before sleep. The river, still beside them, had grown quiet. No more chattering over rocks, no more birdsong in the trees. Just the occasional rustle of dry leaves and the soft pad of three pairs of feet making their way home.

Tima was slower now, her steps smaller. Stick-Stick dragged gently in the dust, tracing a line that only she could read. Her head dipped every few steps, then lifted again, stubborn against the weight of the day.