Two hours later, we had constructed something that looked vaguely crib-shaped but leaned at an angle that suggested it had been designed for a ship's cabin rather than a cottage floor. The legs were uneven, one of the side panels was on backwards, and there was a mysterious leftover screw that neither of us could account for.

"It's got character," I said weakly.

"It's got structural instability," Peter corrected, crouching down to examine it from floor level. "Right. Take it apart. We're starting over."

Mama laughed—a real, full-bodied laugh that filled the cottage and made both of us look up. "You two," she said, wiping her eyes. "You look like you're defusing a bomb."

"This would be easier," Peter said darkly, but he was smiling too.

By the fourth hour, we'd finally managed it. The crib stood level (mostly), the bars were secure (we tested by shaking it violently), and it was positioned in the corner of the living room where the firelight would reach but the drafts wouldn't. Mama walked over slowly, running her hand along the smooth wood, and for a moment the room went quiet.

"She's really coming," she whispered.

"She's really coming," I agreed, putting my arm around her.

Peter picked up the mysterious leftover screw, examined it with a frown, then pocketed it. "Spares," he announced. "Every good piece of furniture comes with spares."

"That's not how it works," I started to say, but Mama was already laughing again, and Peter was grinning, and the crib—slightly imperfect, slightly wobbly, entirely ours—stood ready.

By the third week of January, the cottage had transformed. It was no longer a bachelor's outpost or a temporary refuge; it had become a nest. Every surface was claimed by the impending arrival. There were stacks of white muslin cloths on the sideboard, a basket of tiny socks by the fire, and a crib that the Swede and I had spent four hours swearing at until it finally stood level on the uneven stone floor.

I watched the two of them from the kitchen doorway one evening. The Swede was reading aloud from a biology textbook—something about the migration patterns of birds, ironically—while she sat on the rug, her back against his knees, slowly folding and unfolding a tiny yellow cardigan.

They weren't "the kids" I was helping out of a jam. They were the heart of the house. The way they spoke to each other—that strange, shorthand language of art and symbols—had woven itself into the fabric of the cottage. The silence of the hills didn't feel lonely anymore; it felt like it was waiting.

"You're staring, Peter," she said, not looking up from the cardigan.

"I'm observing," I corrected, moving to the kettle.

"You love it," the Swede grinned, closing his book.

"I tolerate it," I grumbled, but as I poured the tea, I knew I was lying. I'd never felt more settled in my life.