I spent the morning meandering through the village. I walked past the red-brick facade of the college, watching students my own age—or slightly older—rushing through the gates with rolls of drafting paper and thick textbooks. For months, the plan had been St. Martin's in London. That was the dream we'd built in the summer—the prestigious art school, the big city, the "proper" path. London was the forced politeness and the clinical "wellness" talk.

When I met her outside the gates at the end of her day, she looked exhausted but glowing. She was laughing at something a girl in her class had said, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. When she saw me, her face lit up.

"How was it?" I asked, taking her bag.

"Confusing," she said, tucking her cold hands into my pockets. "But good. We talked about color theory. I think I'm better at the practice than the theory."

"Why don't I just go here?" I said, the words surprising even me. "To study, I mean."

She stopped, her brow furrowing. "What? Here? To Gwent?"

"Yeah. Why not? We said St. Martin's, but... that feels like a different version of us. A version that doesn't live in a cottage and climb mountains to talk to giants. If you're here, and the baby is here, and Peter is here... why am I trying to be somewhere else? It doesn't make the sense. It doesn't make the sense."

The rain tapped a steady beat on the pavement between us. She didn't answer immediately, but the way she gripped my hand inside my pocket told me everything I needed to know. I just had to be the bridge right here.

Wednesday arrived with the kind of low-hanging, damp mist that made the stone walls of the cottage feel like they were sweating. By midday, the air hadn't cleared, but our hunger had sharpened into something that only the smell of hot fat and salt could satisfy. We walked down the hill toward the Crosskeys Fish Bar, our shoulders hunched against the fine drizzle.

The shop was a small, bright sanctuary of white tiles and the roar of the deep fryers. The windows were opaque with steam, hiding the grey street outside. We took our seats in one of the narrow booths, the red linoleum tabletop cool under our elbows. Peter was in high spirits, his hair slightly wild from the wind, already eyeing the blackboard menu like he hadn't eaten in a week.

"Three cod and chips," Peter announced to the woman behind the counter, "and don't be stingy with the scraps sir."

As the salt and vinegar hit the hot paper, the sharp, stinging scent acted like a time machine. Suddenly, we weren't in a damp valley in South Wales; we were back in July.

"You remember the drive down to Polperro?" I asked, sliding a wooden fork through a mountain of chips. "That old toyota nearly gave up the ghost on the Bodmin Moor."