The sixth day brought sun that meant business. High, warm, the kind that turned the lake into a mirror and made every shadow sharp. In the afternoon, we made our way down to the harbour, where the steamboat SS Thomée was docked, a proud and low vessel from another time. Tima clutched her ticket like a passport. "Is this a pirate ship?" she asked. "Sort of. But the pirates here sell cinnamon buns instead of treasure." She giggled and climbed aboard with both arms wide, as if to greet the whole lake. The boat pulled away from the dock with a soft lurch, the whistle letting out a long note that echoed across the water. Mountains rose in the distance, cragged and patient. The lake sparkled under the afternoon sun, the wind crisp and sweet. Tima stood at the rail for almost the whole ride, eyes fixed on the foam. Water splashed up and misted her cheeks, but she didn't flinch. "I think this is where the cat serpent lives," she said. "Maybe Jata and Kata are watching us." "Maybe they are," I said, brushing her hair back. "Maybe they think we're brave." We ate warm kanelbullar and sipped sweet coffee from plastic cups. Tima talked to a baby seated nearby, told her about Hoppy and Patchy, and how the boat ran on steam and giggles. The return was slower. The boat moved like it didn't want to leave the water behind. I felt the same.

That evening, back at the flat, we gathered around the little coffee table with an old photo album Nain had brought out from the cupboard. The cover was worn, a faint floral pattern now mostly faded, the spine patched with tape. Inside were curled photographs from another time. Me, perhaps ten, with my sisters, all of us grinning like fools in front of the red train cars of the Inlandsbanan. I pointed. "Oh this one. Just before we left with the bus for town." A picture of me and my sisters and Nain, standing holding an old umbrella but no rain, early morning. We lingered over the images—me with scruffy bangs, my sisters holding thermoses, Nain younger but with the same eyes, always watching, steady. The past felt close tonight, not heavy, just near. Like a breath you didn't quite realise you were still holding. Tima studied each photo with care, pointing at my face in each one. "That's you but small," she said. "You had funny hair." "Still do," Nain said. After the album was put away, I helped Tima into her bedtime nappy and the soft cotton pyjamas with stars and bears. I tucked her into the hammock bed, Hoppy and Patchy flanking her like bedtime sentries. I read from Songs and Sayings of Gwent and Glyndŵr—tonight's story about a hill that sang only to those who truly listened. She nodded slowly, eyes heavy, mouthing along with the final lines as if she already knew them. "I love it here," she whispered. "I know," I whispered back. She blinked slowly. "The lake's inside me now." I kissed her brow. "Keep it there, cariad."

On the last full day, I woke before anyone. The flat was still, the light pale and uncertain, the kind that belongs to the hour before the world decides what sort of day it wants to be. I scrawled a note for Nain and placed it under her mug with a heart: Tima wanted to show the lake a secret. Be right back. We dressed quietly—hoodies, soft trousers, our older sneakers—and slipped out into the morning.