"It's like looking at the nervous system of the world," Mama whispered, her breath hitching as a spray of gold glittered over Newport in the distance.

"Or a very slow-motion battle," Peter added, leaning against the hood of Vera, a thermos of tea in his hand. He looked at the two of us—seventeen, huddled together against the wind, carrying a life that was only weeks away from joining the fray.

For the first time, the "Happy New Year" felt less like a greeting and more like a pact. We weren't just moving into a new month; we were moving toward a threshold. As the last of the fireworks faded and the valley returned to its deep, obsidian dark, I realized we weren't looking down at a map anymore. We were looking down at the stage where our life was actually going to happen.

January settled into a rhythm. Not the neat, predictable rhythm of a metronome, but the organic, messy pulse of people learning to live together in a space that wasn't quite big enough and somehow exactly the right size.

Mornings began with Peter's alarm at 6:30—a tinny, aggressive beep that echoed through the cottage like a declaration of war against sleep. I'd hear him shuffling downstairs, the creak of the floorboards marking his progress to the kitchen. By the time I made it down, the kettle would already be whistling, and he'd have two pieces of toast going under the grill, which he inevitably forgot about until they were one shade darker than "edible."

January mornings were the worst. The stone floors were so cold they felt like walking on river ice, even through socks. Our breath hung visible in the air until Peter got the kitchen heater going—a temperamental beast that coughed and rattled before grudgingly producing warmth. Frost painted intricate fern patterns on the inside of the windows, and I'd watch them melt slowly as the cottage woke up, water running in thin rivulets down the glass.

"Morning, Swede," he'd grunt, not quite awake yet, pouring tea into mugs that never matched. "How's the fortress?"

"Still asleep," I'd say, taking the mug. "She was up until two rearranging the bookshelf. Again."

"Nesting," Peter would nod sagely, as if he were a professor of obstetrics rather than a middle-aged bachelor who'd learned everything from library books and sheer stubbornness. "Perfectly normal, that is. My sister did the same thing. Organized the spice rack alphabetically at three in the morning. Woke up my brother-in-law yelling about the cumin. Bloody nightmare, but natural as rain."

The mornings became our time—Peter's and mine. Over burnt toast and strong tea, he taught me Welsh. Not the formal, textbook Welsh, but the valley Welsh, the kind that was half curse word and half blessing.

"Right," he'd say, settling into his chair with the air of a man about to impart sacred knowledge. "If someone's being an idiot, you call them a 'twpsyn.' Say it."

"Toop-sin?"