"We live in a cottage, Snow, not a cathedral," Peter laughed, scooping her up so she could see the tops of the trees. "If we get a big one, we'll have to move the sofa into the garden, and I'm too old to sleep in the frost."

We spent an hour debating the merits of various pines. Mama wanted something "stubborn," a tree that looked like it had grown on the side of a mountain rather than a farm. Eventually, tucked behind a massive Nordmann Fir, we found it: a tiny, slightly crooked potted tree, barely three feet tall. It was a "Daffodil" of a tree—small, bright, and looking like it was ready to put up a fight against the winter.

"That's the one," Mama said, her eyes lighting up. "It's perfect. It looks like it belongs in the cottage."

Watching her smile as she touched the soft needles, I felt the heaviness of the London trip finally start to dissolve. We weren't a "problem" here. We were just people buying a tree.

The moment of the transaction was where the "strangeness" returned. As the vendor—a man with hands as rough as bark—quoted the price, I reached for my wallet, my fingers fumbling with the few notes I'd carefully set aside from my student loan.

Peter was faster. He didn't even look at the price. He just peeled a twenty from a crumpled wad in his pocket and handed it over, already grabbing the base of the pot.

"Peter, let me," I started, my voice tight with that familiar, youthful pride. "I've got enough for this, at least."

Peter stopped, the little tree held against his chest like a prickly child. He looked at me, not with pity, but with a flat, unwavering clarity.

"Put your money away, kid," he said.

"I don't like being a burden," I whispered, the words feeling heavy in the crowded market.

Peter stepped closer, the smell of pine needles filling the space between us. "You're only a burden if you think you're alone. We're in the Valleys now. We do things differently here. I'm not 'paying' for you. I'm investing in the house. This tree is for the cottage. You're in the cottage. Ergo, it's my treat."

He gave me a playful nudge with his elbow, the kind that reminded me he was still the "Old Man" even if he was acting as our guardian. "Besides, if you really want to pay me back, you can do the dishes for the next month. My hands are getting too pretty for dish soap."

We walked back to the car, Peter carrying the tree, Steph and Mama laughing as Eira tried to "feed" a stray pigeon a bit of her Welsh cake. As we loaded Vera for the drive back to Crosskeys, the car filled with the scent of pine and damp wool.