She was so small, yet she seemed to occupy the entire space around the table. She was perched on Steph's lap, a tiny whirlwind in a denim pinafore, her eyes wide and wary as we approached. As soon as we sat down, she dove into Steph's shoulder, burying her face in a mop of blonde curls.

"She's a bit shy today," Steph said, her voice warm and grounded. She reached out a hand to us. "I'm Steph. And this shy little mouse is Eira. Don't worry, give her ten minutes and she'll be trying to steal your cake."

"I'm used to it," Peter joked. "I've been stealing cake from her for months."

We ordered tea and thick slices of Victoria sponge, the conversation flowing easily between Peter and Steph. They spoke with the shorthand of people who had ten years of history—names of old friends, jokes about the weather, and a shared, quiet love for the valley. But my eyes kept drifting to Eira. She was peeking out from behind Steph's hair now, watching us with a quiet, intense curiosity.

"So," Peter said, leaning forward. "We were just talking about the concert in Tredegar Park next month. Local bands, some stalls. It's usually a good laugh."

At the mention of the park, Eira's shyness seemed to evaporate instantly. She sat up, her eyes shining as she looked at Steph. "Horses?" she asked, her voice a tiny, high-pitched chirp. "Will the horses be there, Mummy? And the stalls?"

Steph laughed, smoothing Eira's hair. "Yes, love. There will be horses. And maybe some ice cream if you're lucky."

Eira beamed, her earlier fear forgotten. She turned her gaze to Mama, her small hand reaching out toward the table. "You come?" she asked, pointing a chubby finger. "You see the horses too?"

I watched the way Mama softened. It wasn't just a smile; it was a recognition. Seeing Eira—so vibrant, so full of questions—made the "little bird" inside her feel like a looming reality. It wasn't just a bump anymore; it was a future person who would eventually ask about horses and ice cream.

"We'll be there," Mama promised, her voice unusually tender.

As the afternoon wore on, we left the cafe and began to stroll through the streets of Newport. The city felt different with Steph leading the way. She didn't walk through the streets; she navigated them like she owned the secret history of every brick.

Steph took us into a small, narrow shop tucked away in a side alley. The air inside was thick with the scent of sage and patchouli. Crystals glittered in wooden bowls, and the walls were lined with books on herbs, folklore, and the Wiccan faith.