"I am." "You look whole, too," she said. "Somewhere underneath." We didn't hug—not yet. But something between us settled anyway. Like the air had shifted. She stood, holding Tima's hand now, and turned toward the car park. "Come on then," she said. "Let's get you home before Sweden remembers it's cold." We took the pendeltåg into the city—first from Arlanda to Märsta, then Märsta to Stockholm Central. Tima pressed her face to the train window most of the ride, her breath making soft circles in the glass. She counted birch trees, then switched to guessing where the cows were hiding. "Maybe underground," she said seriously. Nain and I sat opposite each other, our knees occasionally knocking as the train rocked. We didn't say much—too many years tucked between us for easy words—but it wasn't cold. Just quiet. Like two books sharing a shelf again. At Stockholm Central, we walked a few streets to a café Nain used to like. Same corner, same yellow sign, slightly new paint. The inside smelled of butter and old wood, and the ceiling fans creaked like they'd been there since jazz. Tima picked the seat by the window—wide bench cushions with faded embroidery—and asked if the boats outside were "drifting shops." "They are," I said. "But they only sell waves." She considered this with a very serious nod. Nain ordered cheese toast and berry juice for Tima, a soft-boiled egg and coffee for herself, and something with pickles and roast veg for me. We didn't need menus. We needed comfort. The toast came still steaming, the cheese golden on top. Tima bit it like it owed her rent. "Mmm. Toast is better in Sweden," she said, crumbs tumbling from her lips. "Controversial opinion," I muttered. Nain smiled into her cup. Outside the café window, boats eased past on the water. Slow, sleepy things, like they didn't want to disturb the summer air. Tima pressed a berry-stained finger against the glass every time one passed, giving them names: Starboat, Cheese Float, Captain Snoozy.

"She's doing well," Nain said softly, watching her—not just with eyes, but with something deeper. I nodded, unsure if it was pride or grief tightening my chest. "She's got more in her than I ever did at that age." "She's got more of all of us," Nain said. Tima turned and looked at me then, cheeks pink from juice and toast, a bit of cheese stuck to her eyebrow. "I'm full." "You're half toast at this point," I said, reaching to clean her face. "Toast child," she grinned. We lingered longer than we needed, letting the food settle, letting something else settle too—the quiet of being together, not perfectly, but presently. Outside, the boats kept floating. We took the 67 bus from Centralen, winding through the chestnut-lined streets toward Djurgården. Tima pressed her forehead against the window again, humming tunelessly and narrating every new thing. "Three red houses, two ice creams, and a dog with no socks!" Nain sat beside her, correcting the Swedish place names under her breath with gentle insistence. "Not 'shoe garden,' darling. Djurgården. It means 'animal garden.'" Tima blinked. "zoo?" "Better," Nain said. "It's like the forest remembers." Skansen opened around us like a spell. Summer leaves rustled overhead, horses clip-clopped in the distance, and laughter drifted between the wooden houses. The air smelled of pine, caramel, and distant animals. Tima nearly leapt from the pram as we passed the chicken pen. "Chickies!" she shouted. We barely made it ten steps before she was crouched beside the fence, whispering serious instructions to a hen. Hoppy dangled from one arm, unimpressed by poultry. "Tell them they have to come for tea," she whispered. I squatted beside her. "What if they're too busy laying eggs?" She considered. "Then we'll have tea after."

The hen clucked loudly, as if in full agreement. Further in, we reached the goats. Tima, armed with a small paper cup of feed, approached one like it was a grandparent in disguise. She held her hand out flat, tongue between her teeth in concentration. The goat licked the pellets eagerly, nudging her sleeve with its nose. "Tickles!" she giggled, falling back into my lap. "I think you've made a friend," I said. "Maybe two. He said his name is... Möö?" Nain chuckled from the bench nearby. "Möö is what they say, not who they are, sweetpea." We wandered between old buildings—blacksmith shops, a bakery with open shutters, a windmill creaking in the soft breeze. Tima's hands stayed sticky with feed and pastry crumbs, her eyes wide and bright. Everywhere, something to see. Something to touch. Something to remember. By the little wooden stage, two young women in folk dress spun around to a fiddler's tune. Tima stared, entranced, her feet already tapping to rhythms she hadn't heard before but clearly knew. "Dance with me, Papa!" We twirled once, twice—her hands in mine, the gravel beneath us crunching with each small step. Hoppy watched solemnly from a nearby bench, propped up with pinecones. After the music faded, we followed a narrow path past the old Sami tent and the herb garden, bees soft in the lavender bloom. We found shade near the stables, where horses snorted and swished their tails in the golden dust. Nain sat between us, pulling something from the pocket of her linen coat—a thin, wrinkled paper with hand-written lines. A rhyme, from long ago. "Do you know this one?" she asked Tima. Tima shook her head. "It's an old Swedish verse," Nain said, clearing her throat: