I dressed quietly and got the girls ready. Steph was already at the table with toast and tea, her files for work spread beside the butter dish. Peter had left early—a note on the counter said something about picking up fencing wire and would be back by lunch. Tima wore her yellow rain mac and her red wellies. Eira had on the green ones. They looked like a pair of tiny traffic lights. We stepped outside and walked down the lane toward the canal path. The air was cool and silver, the morning light diffused through cloud so thin it barely counted. The hedgerows dripped softly. The towpath was damp underfoot, that familiar give of wet earth, and the ferns along the banks leaned in close, heavy with water. Everything smelled of bark and moss and the faint iron tang of the canal itself. Tima walked ahead, splashing deliberately in every puddle, Hoppy tucked inside her mac with just his head poking out. Eira kept pace beside her, narrating their journey in a running commentary that involved pirates, a lost crown, and a mud dragon. I walked behind them, hands in pockets, watching their small shapes move through the green tunnel of trees. The canal lay still beside us, dark and smooth, reflecting the overhanging branches in perfect symmetry—a second world, upside down and quietly watching. I thought of the lakes. Of Lillsjön shimmering, of Storsjön opening wide, of the birch tree with her name carved into its bark. And then I thought of this—this canal, this path, this soft grey morning—and I understood that they were all part of the same thing. The same water, the same story, winding through different landscapes but flowing toward the same place. Home. We crossed under the old stone bridge where the ivy grew thickest, and the path curved toward Crosskeys. The Ty Sign daycare was just ahead now, its pastel fence just visible through the trees, the sound of small voices already drifting over the hedge. The teacher was at the gate when we arrived—a tall woman with kind eyes and a wool cardigan that looked like it had survived several generations of sticky fingers. She crouched as we approached, her face breaking into a wide smile. "Bore da! Oh wait—" she corrected herself with a grin, glancing at the clock on the wall behind her. "Prynhawn da! Just about, isn't it?" Tima looked up at her and beamed. "Prynhawn da!" Eira echoed it, already halfway through the gate, drawn by the sound of water play and the promise of chalk. Tima paused at the threshold. She turned back to me, Hoppy still tucked inside her coat, and held up one hand—small, open, certain. "Bye, Papa," she said. "See you after the puddles." I crouched and kissed her forehead. "After the puddles." She walked through the gate without looking back, her boots already finding the first splash, her voice rising to meet the others—a bright thread joining the chorus. I stood there a moment longer, the mist settling on my shoulders, the canal path stretching quiet behind me. The morning held itself gently, the way mornings do when they know they matter. Then I turned, hands in pockets, and walked back the way I'd come. The rain kept falling. The path kept winding. And somewhere behind me, a little girl was already making potions.