The flight home was quieter than the one going out. Tima slept through most of it, head on my arm, Hoppy and Patchy wedged between us. I watched the clouds from the other side now—west-facing, evening-lit, the sun pulling everything into amber and rose. Somewhere below, the North Sea glinted. Somewhere ahead, Wales waited, green and patient. At Heathrow, we moved through the corridors in that dazed, post-journey haze—everything slightly too bright, slightly too loud, the body not quite sure what time zone it belongs to. Tima walked beside me, holding Hoppy by one ear, her backpack bouncing with every step. We took the coach to Newport, then the bus back through Crosskeys. The valley thickened around us in the fading light—hedgerows, stone walls, the river below winding through its own quiet story. Tima watched it all through the window, but differently now. Not with discovery, but with recognition. "We're nearly home," she said. "Nearly," I said. And then we were.

The cottage smelled of cawl again. Of course it did. Steph was at the door before the bus had fully stopped, Eira just behind her, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hair wild from a day of whatever adventures had kept her occupied. Peter stood in the hallway beyond, a tea towel over one shoulder, giving me the kind of nod that said welcome back and don't make a fuss about it. Tima ran the last few steps and collided with Eira so hard they both nearly toppled. "I brought you a rock!" Tima shouted, already digging in her pocket. "It's from a LAKE." "Is it magic?" Eira asked, taking it with appropriate reverence. "Probably." Steph put her arms around me—not frantically, not with tears, just steadily—and held on for a moment longer than usual. Her hair smelled of shampoo and kitchen steam. Her hands were warm on my back. "Good trip?" she said into my collar. "The best," I said. "She was incredible." Steph pulled back and looked at Tima, who was now showing Eira how to hold Patchy properly—"not by the ears, that's rude"—and her face softened in a way I hadn't seen in weeks. "I can see it," she said. "Something's different." "Good different?" "The best different." Peter handed me a mug of tea without being asked. "You look knackered," he said. "Cheers, Peter." "Welcome home, though."

We sat around the table that night—the five of us, bowls of cawl and torn bread, the girls cross-legged on the bench, Hoppy and Patchy propped between them like honoured guests. Tima told wild, half-accurate stories about trains and goats and a lake monster called Göran who wore a scarf and liked pancakes. Eira listened with wide eyes, adding suggestions and sound effects.

Peter asked sensible questions. Steph asked the real ones—quietly, later, when the girls were in the other room.

"Did she talk about her mum?"