Outside, the world was hushed and washed clean. The cool air held the scent of pine and wood smoke, and the sky was streaked with pale rose and cloudmilk. We walked downhill from the flat, past the small carpark, then under the old tunnel—its chipped murals of fish and birds painted by schoolchildren long grown. Tima reached up and ran her hand across the peeling yellow sun on the wall. "It's still warm," she whispered. The tunnel spat us out into the back path toward the allotments—those flat green spaces that held the town's breath at the edge of the Great Lake. We passed rows of small fenced gardens where beans twisted skyward and strawberries poked out their tongues like secrets. A green watering can sat forgotten in the grass, and windchimes sang from someone's porch. "Do gnomes live here?" she asked. "I think only the very friendly ones," I said. She walked a little ahead, her boots kicking small stones. "This is a real story path." I agreed. It always had been. When we reached the lake, the world opened wide. The Great Lake shimmered like a giant still breathing in sleep. A few boats rocked gently in their moorings, and the mountains across the water were dusted with early haze. The air smelled of grass, morning, and a hint of bread from somewhere far off. I led her to a birch tree—slanted, knotted, older than her and me both. It stood just above the waterline, its trunk already crowded with names, initials, swirls of declarations old and newer.

"I want to write my name," she said. I crouched and unfolded the small knife I'd carried since I was seventeen. Together, we carved her name—TIMA—into the soft bark just above a heart someone else had drawn years ago. She traced the letters with her fingertip afterward, as if sealing a pact. "This means the tree knows I was here," she said.

"And it will remember."

We sat quietly for a moment on a flat rock nearby, sharing water and a slice of leftover crispbread. The world moved around us in little ways: a crow passed overhead, a ripple reached the shore, the sound of a distant door opening. Then we walked back slowly, retracing our steps past the gardens, through the tunnel, and up to Koporten. Nain was at the window when we returned, coffee in hand. "You carved it?" she asked, though she already knew.

I nodded.

She smiled. "Good. That tree needed a new name."

The last morning came slower than before. Grey light through gauze curtains, the soft creak of old floorboards. I was already awake, folding our things in quiet motion, careful not to wake her.