"They better not be drinking them," Steph called over her shoulder. "No promises," Eira grinned, kicking off her damp boots. Tima was already halfway to the hearth, where the low fire had been coaxed to a cheerful crackle. She plopped down in front of it, peeled off her coat, and unzipped the little satchel of crayons and paper that lived beside the kindling basket.

"Drawin' time," she murmured, as if to herself. Eira joined her, and soon the floor was a sea of curls, crayons, and quiet muttering about which creature wore which crown. Hoppy (rescued from the coat pocket) was given a starring role in the background of each scene.

I sat on the floor nearby, watching them, toes warming against the flagstones. The fire spat occasionally, its warmth licking the air in gentle bursts. Tima leaned into Eira, pointing at her drawing with serious critique. Eira added a dragonfly crown in response. "Girls," Steph said, "dinner in five."

We ate slowly, bowls cradled in our hands, bread torn into chunks and dunked without ceremony. Tima spilled some and tried to mop it up with a crayon. Eira offered her last potato piece to Hoppy. Steph looked across the table at me and smiled. "I've packed the little bags. Yours probably needs a redo though."

"I take offence." "You should." After dinner, the girls curled up in front of the telly, watching Fireman Sam with eyes half-lidded and bodies heavy with warmth. Tima's head fell to Eira's shoulder. Eira didn't even blink, just reached up to pat her hair in slow, absentminded strokes. Steph nudged me. "Let them sleep like that?"

"Yeah," I said, already grabbing a blanket. The cottage always felt older at night. Not just quiet, but settled—like the house itself took a deep breath once the girls were asleep. Steph and I sat on the sofa, feet tangled in the knitted throw, two mugs of peppermint tea balanced on the old trunk we used as a table. Outside, the rain had thickened a little, tapping against the windows with steady fingers.

We didn't talk much at first. Just sat. The kind of silence that comes after long days and deeper thoughts. "I forget sometimes," I said eventually. "That I'm doing this. That we're doing it. Tomorrow… it's real." Steph nodded, eyes on the fire. "You ready?" "No," I admitted. "But yes. You know?"

She laughed softly. "No one's ever ready for these things. We just pack snacks and wing it." I leaned my head back against the sofa. "I feel like I'm carrying a story. Not just mine. Hers too. All of it." "You are," Steph said. "But it's okay. That's what we do. We carry the story until they can." I looked over. She was watching the fire now, face soft in the flicker.