"Your heart Tad.. galon?" she said, sniffling. "Yep. That's my love. It's still here. It's not going anywhere—not even on a plane." She held her breath, eyes wide, then finally let out a sigh. "Okay," she said, standing up. "But I carry Hoppy." "Deal." We gathered our things—backpack zipped, bunny secured, boarding passes checked again—and made our way to the gate. Her hand never left mine, even when the queue slowed, even when the final beep of the scanner welcomed us forward. There, in the tunnel of light and metal, she looked back just once—toward the glass, toward the clouds, toward something neither of us could name. Then forward again. The plane rumbled beneath us like a distant drum, the sort you feel more in your bones than your ears. We were strapped in near the wing, rows humming with seatbelt clicks and plastic crinkle sounds. The engine whirred louder, higher, sharper. Tima sat straight in her seat, stiff but holding firm, Hoppy clutched to her chest like a knight's shield. I leaned close so she could hear me over the gathering thunder of takeoff. "You okay, cariad?" She nodded quickly, eyes huge. "It's... loud." "Like a big growly tummy," I offered. She giggled just once before the wheels pulled from the ground. That first moment—the tilt, the shift, the seat pressing back—she gasped. Her whole face opened wide, like the sky had jumped inside her chest. "Papa!" "I'm here." She looked out the window just as the clouds parted—rooftops shrinking, lights blinking in the dark like fireflies scattered across a map. Somewhere below, the Thames curved like a soft silver ribbon through the city's frame. Then she saw them. "Stars!" she shouted, pressing her hands to the window. "Papa, stars! We found them!"

I smiled, brushing hair from her forehead. "We're flying east," I said. "Toward the morning." She watched the sky with breathless joy, forehead resting against the glass. The wing lit up as the cabin lights dimmed, city glow fading behind us. The stars—those few brave ones peeking through the thin cloud—seemed to nod in greeting. Hoppy was placed in her lap now, facing the window too. "He's never seen stars up here," she whispered. "Only from grass." "Well," I said, "not everyone gets to meet the sky like this." She turned to me, face lit with something beyond excitement—something weightless, like relief, or trust that had been tested and held. "I think we're in a bedtime story now," she whispered. I nodded. "The best kind." Outside, the horizon stretched into something just shy of dawn, and the world below slipped further away—not forgotten, but gently folded. We were in motion. Somewhere between the hush of the seatbelt sign switching off and the stewardess offering juice, Tima curled against me like a cat in a sunbeam. Her breathing slowed—steady, rhythmic, one hand around my thumb, the other draped over Hoppy's belly. She'd stayed awake longer than I expected, watching stars, naming lights, asking if clouds had names too. But now, her body had gone weightless in a different way. Sleep had taken her gently. I adjusted the blanket over her legs, careful not to wake her. Outside, the night stretched wide—no real edges, just softness, as if the world was wrapped in a pale scarf. Somewhere below us, maybe Denmark. Maybe the edge of the Baltic Sea. I reached for the small journal in the seat pocket and turned to a fresh page. The pen felt smooth, steady. My hand didn't shake like it used to. She trusted the sky today. That still feels like a miracle. There was a time when she wouldn't even trust a lift, or a hill too steep, or the night if it crept in too quickly. And now she's asleep, thousands of feet above the world, wrapped in a blanket with stars behind her and nothing but my arms and this plane keeping her safe. I remember my first few flights. With Mum. The excitement in her voice when we boarded. The way she whispered "we're flying now" like it was a secret between us and the sky. She'd point out things below, guessing their names. Sometimes she was right. Sometimes she wasn't, and didn't care. She used to tell me clouds were the soft wool of invisible sheep. That came back to me tonight. Like a voice stored in the vapour. Tima stirred in her sleep, murmured something incomprehensible, and sighed. I don't know what she'll remember from this. Maybe the egg in the chicken cup. Maybe the red plane going to the jungle. Maybe the way Monika held her hand at the window. But I'll remember this. Her breathing. Her warmth. Her weight in my arms. And the stars we flew into, without fear. I looked down at her again. A curl of hair had stuck to her cheek. Her mouth was slightly open, soft and dream-heavy. Patchy's ear was trapped under her elbow. The sky outside hadn't changed. Still endless. Still holding us. The voice over the speaker was quiet, almost apologetic. "Ladies and gentlemen, we'll shortly begin our descent into Stockholm Arlanda. Local time is just past 8 a.m., and the temperature is… chilly." The plane adjusted course with a long exhale of pressure. Lights brightened slightly. The sky outside was no longer night, but not yet day either—a pale silver stretched over the horizon, hinting at blue. Sweden waited below in mist and treetops. Tima stirred in my arms. Her eyelashes fluttered against my shirt, then her hand reached out blindly toward the window. I gently shifted her, and she sat up, still half-asleep, rubbing one eye. Her forehead pressed to the glass, warm breath fogging a small patch.

The landscape emerged in pieces—dense forest, little pockets of lake, sleepy hangars and stretches of road that looked like scribbles on green parchment. She yawned without sound, cheeks flushed from sleep. "Where is it?" she whispered. "Here," I said, brushing her hair back. "Sweden, cariad." She didn't answer at first, just watched. Then, as the wheels lowered with a hum and the engines adjusted tone, she placed her hand on the window. Small. Steady. Quietly claiming it. "I see trees," she said. "Always a good sign," I smiled. The plane touched down with the gentlest of bumps, like a long exhale finally finding ground. She looked up at me. "It didn't fall." "Nope," I said. "Held us the whole way." She nodded like she'd never expected otherwise. And then, just like that, she reached for Hoppy, tucked under her leg, and whispered, "We made it, Agent." The taxi to the gate took longer than expected, the plane weaving slowly past early-morning crews and blinking amber lights. Tima hummed something low, a melody I didn't recognise, but one I knew she'd hum again someday. As the doors opened and people began to stand, she stayed seated beside me, both hands resting in my lap. "Are we home?" she asked. "Not quite," I said, "but almost." She smiled, as if that was more than enough. We came through the last set of doors, fluorescent lights giving way to the wide glass glow of the arrivals hall. The kind of place where hours are lost and hearts found. People lined the railings with paper signs and phones raised, but we weren't looking for cardboard. We were looking for her. Tima tugged at my hand, blinking at the sudden openness of the room. Her little suitcase bounced behind us, one wheel a bit sticky from airport grit. She looked up at me and whispered, "Do we shout now?" "No," I said softly. "We look." And then there she was. Nain stood just past the barrier, short grey hair tucked beneath a dark green beret, both hands wrapped around the strap of her handbag like it was keeping her still. Her eyes found mine immediately. They didn't widen. They didn't blink. They just… held. I hadn't seen her in over half a year. Letters, a few calls. But not this. Not the weight of her eyes in the real. Not since before the worst of it. Not since after everything changed. Tima slowed when she spotted her. She didn't run forward like in books or films. She simply stood by my leg, half-hiding, half-curious. I crouched beside her. "This is Nain," I said. "Your Nain." Tima looked again. "She's little." I smiled. "All the best people are." Nain stepped forward—tentatively, like approaching a deer—and crouched a bit herself. "Hello, cariad," she said, her voice tight in the chest. "I've waited a long time." Tima stepped a little closer, holding Hoppy in front like a plush ambassador. "I have a hippo." "I can see that," Nain said, lips quivering with a smile. "Very proper gentleman." And then, like a tide folding over itself, Tima moved into her arms. It wasn't fast. It wasn't movie-perfect. But it was real. Nain held her close, one hand on Tima's back, the other gently cupping the back of her head. I watched her close her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek and vanished into Tima's hair. After a moment, she opened them and looked at me. "You look tired."