Jag hade en gång en båt Med segel och ruff och köl Men det var för länge sen, så länge sen Svara mig du Var är den nu? Jag bara undrar: "Var är den nu?"

Tima blinked. "boats?" "And feelings," Nain added. "And wondering." She repeated it, slowly this time, letting Tima repeat each line after her. On the third round, they sang it together—unpolished, uneven, but full of something honest. I watched them—two voices years apart, threading something between them. Tima leaned her head on Nain's shoulder. "She's very warm," she told me. "That's what grandmothers are for," I said. We stayed there a while longer, watching people pass—families, old couples, toddlers melting into naps in their prams. The sun leaned west, turning the grass gold. "I like Sweden," Tima whispered. "I do too," I said, meaning it more than I'd expected. We left Skansen with a little goat-shaped cookie in a paper bag, hands full of sticky memories and a rhyme I knew we'd be singing again soon. The tram hissed and clicked as it pulled in. The platform was bathed in that strange midsummer twilight—where night never quite arrives, but day bows its head. Tima stood beside me, hands in her jacket pockets, shoulders high with fatigue, but eyes still wide with light. The air smelled faintly of rain and gravel and old steel. Somewhere, a busker played accordion. It drifted through the electric hum of wires above us. We boarded the tram and found a seat near the back. Nain sat across from us, her hands folded over her bag, quiet but smiling, watching the city fold itself inward with the night.

Tima pressed her cheek to the window, tracing the lights of the city as they slid by. Reflections made everything double—twinkling and trembling, as if Stockholm itself were dreaming. She turned to me, her voice small but sure. "Big train next?" "The biggest one yet," I said, kissing her forehead. She beamed, then yawned so wide I thought her jaw might creak. From the window, we watched the last tram stops glide past—the water, the silhouettes of spires, cafés shutting their blinds. The lights in the tram flickered gently, the same rhythm as the swaying motion of the tracks. Tima rested against me, thumb brushing the soft edge of Hoppy's ear. I looked down at her, then across to Nain. We were a trio in transit. Generations nestled in a tram car between time zones and train lines, between endings and arrivals. She whispered, "Do we sleep on the next one?" "All night," I said. "You'll wake up in another world." The tram rolled on toward the central station, and the city, for all its motion, felt still. Stockholm Central shimmered under the platform lights, the air still warm with the memory of day. The sleeper train stood waiting like a long, silver serpent coiled around stories yet to unfold. Tima held tightly to my hand as we stepped aboard, eyes scanning every button, every door, every echoing footstep. The corridor was narrow, the kind that made you walk sideways and giggle. She did both. "It's like a secret hallway," she whispered. Our cabin was near the middle of the carriage—compact, warmly lit, the walls the colour of toast. A small ladder stretched toward the top bunk, and a low window blinked the last gold of the city. Tima stepped inside and gasped. "It's a ship!" Nain chuckled softly, setting her bag on the lower bunk. "A ship on tracks." Tima climbed onto the lower bunk, then the upper, bouncing lightly, giggling, peering through the little reading lamp like it was a periscope. I laid out her pyjamas—soft cotton ones with clouds and moons—folded neatly beside Hoppy and Patchy, already propped up on her pillow like loyal crewmates. She climbed down and sat beside me while I pulled her socks off, wriggling her toes with exaggerated relief. "They were sooooo hot," she declared. Nain tucked a small chocolate into a napkin and left it by the pillow—just like when I was little. "Night train chocolate," she said. "A tradition." Tima's eyes lit up. "Like in the snow book?" "Exactly," I nodded. The train gave a small jolt as it started to roll. Tima's mouth curled into a sleepy grin. "Captain on board," she whispered. Outside, the city slipped away. Trees replaced buildings. The sky stretched quiet and slow. We left the cabin door ajar and wandered down the corridor, Tima still in her day clothes, barefoot on the carpet. Just past the dining carriage, the cinema cart glowed dim and golden—a small screen flickering in the dark, a few scattered families watching from plush seats. Ratatouille was already playing. Tima spotted the little rat on screen and tugged my sleeve. "The cooking one!" she whispered. We slipped into two seats near the back. She curled against my side and watched for a while, eyes bright in the screenlight, murmuring along to bits she knew. The little rat stirred soup like a magician. The violins rose and the kitchen clattered. But her eyelids were already heavy, the day pressing down on her like a warm hand. After twenty minutes or so she turned to me, mid-yawn. "Can we have fika now?" "Absolutely," I said. We left the cinema cart—Remy still darting across pots and pans behind us—and made our way to the café cart, two carriages along. The light there was warmer, softer, the kind that makes everything feel like late afternoon even at ten o'clock at night. A few passengers sat alone with books and coffee, the low hum of conversation mixing with the steady rhythm of the rails. We found a small table by the window. I ordered a tea for myself and a warm chocolate for Tima, and two kanelbullar that came on a blue ceramic plate, still slightly warm, sugar crystals catching the light. Tima held her cup with both hands, blowing on it with great ceremony. She took a sip, got a chocolate moustache, and grinned. "This is good train chocolate," she said. "The best kind," I agreed. We shared the cinnamon buns in small, quiet bites. Outside the window, the Swedish countryside slid past in silhouette—dark trees against a sky that refused to go fully black, that pale midsummer glow clinging to the horizon like a secret the night couldn't quite keep. Tima dunked a piece of kanelbulle into her chocolate. "Nain does this," she said. "She showed me." "Did she?" "With biscuits. But this is better." She chewed thoughtfully. The train rocked gently, and the cups trembled in their saucers like small bells. "Papa?" "Mm?" "I like trains more than planes." "Why's that?" She thought for a moment. "Planes go too fast. Trains let you see." I looked at her—this small, flour-dusted philosopher in a rumpled shirt—and I thought she might be the wisest person I'd ever met. We finished our fika slowly, watching the pale night pass. A lake glinted once through a gap in the trees, then vanished. The café cart attendant wiped the counter with slow, practised strokes. Somewhere further down the train, a door clicked shut. "Ready for bed, love?" She nodded, sliding off the seat and taking my hand. We padded back along the corridor, our reflections ghosting alongside us in the dark glass. Back in the cabin, Nain was reading by the small lamp, her glasses perched low on her nose. She looked up and smiled. "Good fika?" "The best," Tima whispered, already climbing onto the lower bunk. I changed her nappy on the narrow bed, balancing the wipes on my knee, the train swaying beneath us. She lay still, eyes on the ceiling, humming something—the tune from the film, maybe, or a song she'd invented between bites of cinnamon. "Fox," she said, pointing at the animal on her clean nappy. "And a bird." "Good eyes." I eased her into her pyjamas—the cloud-and-moon ones—and pulled the thin blanket up to her chin. Hoppy went under her left arm. Patchy under the right. She arranged them with the precision of someone who understood that sleep was a serious expedition requiring proper crew. Nain leaned down from above and kissed her forehead. "God natt, min skatt." Tima looked up at her. "What's that mean?" "Good night, little gold," Nain said softly. Tima smiled. "I'm gold." "You are," Nain whispered, and climbed back to her bunk. I sat beside Tima for a moment, stroking her hair. The cabin rocked in its gentle rhythm. Outside, the pale sky held on, neither day nor night, just the long northern hush between the two. "Papa," she murmured. "Will the train be there when I wake up?" "It'll still be going," I said. "All night. Carrying us north." "Like a boat," she said sleepily. "Like a boat." I kissed her brow, felt her breath slow against my hand. "Good night, cariad." Her eyes closed. Her fingers tightened once around Hoppy's ear, then softened. The rhythm of the rails took over—click-clack, click-clack—and within a minute, she was gone. Somewhere deep and safe, where trains run on moonlight and cinnamon buns never end.