"A little," I said. "In the way she does. Gently. Without knowing she's doing it." Steph nodded, and something in her eyes said she understood more than she let on. We put the girls to bed together—Tima and Eira side by side in the big bed, their heads touching, Hoppy and Patchy and a new addition (a stuffed fox Eira had acquired in our absence) arranged in a careful perimeter.

"Night night," Tima said. "Night night, sky. Night night, trains."

"Night night," Eira echoed. "Night night, Sweden."

And within minutes, they were both gone—breathing slow and even, tangled together like they'd never been apart.

That first morning back, I woke to the sound of rain. Not heavy—just the soft kind, the Welsh kind, the kind that hangs in the air like mist and settles on everything without anyone noticing.