"They've got that walnut cake you like," she said, and for a second I forgot how to speak. We sat there, the four of us, toast and tea and soft clinking sounds. The café filled with quiet conversation, spoons against cups, someone coughing near the counter. Outside, the town ticked along—buses crawling past, delivery vans double-parked, a dog tied to the bike rack barking at a pigeon that didn't care. Tima leaned her head on my shoulder mid-chew, sticky fingers resting lightly on my sleeve. And across the table, Steph looked at me. Just looked. Like she was seeing everything at once: the bags at our feet, the light on my face, the shadow of what we were about to do. Her tea sat untouched. Her eyes didn't waver. This is real. That's what passed between us. Not panic. Not second-guessing. Just… the weight of it. The shape this day would leave behind. I reached across the table and touched her hand, just once. Her thumb brushed mine, then let go. "Better finish up," she said, voice quiet. "You've got a train to catch." Tima sat upright and raised a crust to the sky.

"To fly-train!" she shouted. "To fly-train," we echoed, smiling despite the ache in our chests. And for a moment, everything held still—like even time wanted to sit with us for just a second longer. The stop outside the old post office hadn't changed in years—the same faded timetable, the same leaning bin, the same uneven pavement that always caught your shoe if you weren't paying attention. The bus hadn't arrived yet, and for once, I was glad. We stood there in a loose circle. Me with the strap of the bag cutting into one shoulder, Tima tucked in close under the other arm. Steph with her arms folded, holding herself like a question. And Eira, pacing a little, like she wasn't sure where her body was supposed to go. The air had that waiting hush to it. Not quiet, exactly, but muted. A lorry passed, a gull called once overhead. Tima chewed on the ear of Hoppy and watched the road as if she might spot the bus first. "Promise you'll bring me something weird," Eira said suddenly. I turned to her. "Like what?" She shrugged. "A rock shaped like a triangle. Or Swedish toothpaste." Tima nodded solemnly. "Rock." Eira took a small step forward and wrapped her arms tight around her cousin, nearly knocking the toast crumb out of her. Hoppy was squashed between them like a witness. "You better be good," she whispered. "And don't eat all the sweets on the first day." "I good," Tima replied, patting her back. Steph was quiet. But when I looked at her, she reached out and squeezed my hand. Firm, once, like she was pouring all the unsaid things into that one brief press. "I packed the lemon wipes," she said softly. "I saw," I replied. The bus rounded the corner. Tima's body tensed against mine—not scared, just bracing. The way she always did when something big was starting. I crouched, settled the bag better across my chest, and adjusted her little rucksack with the yellow stars. "You ready, love?"

She looked at me. Then at the bus. Then back at Eira, who gave her a tiny nod, the kind of nod that said everything's gonna be alright, even if it stings a bit. Tima nodded back. "I'm ready." We climbed aboard as the doors hissed open. The driver gave me a glance that said he'd seen a hundred goodbyes at this stop, and still wasn't used to them. I waved from the steps. Eira was holding Steph's hand now, eyes wide but dry. Steph lifted two fingers in a wave, mouthing something I couldn't quite catch. It didn't matter. We found a seat near the back. Tima pressed her face to the glass, fingers smudging the pane as she watched them shrink away. And when the bus pulled off down Commercial Street, I felt it. That soft ache. Like something just let go, but still lived in the hand that held it. The bus rumbled forward like an old story being retold—steady, familiar, full of little jolts. The seats were worn in that way public seats always are, and the windows were streaked from last night's rain, catching the sunlight in sideways glints. Tima sat on my lap, her knees bouncing lightly, Hoppy nestled against her belly like a seatbelt made of comfort. She pressed her nose to the glass, breath fogging it in small bursts, then drew a wobbly circle with her fingertip. "House!" she shouted, pointing at a row of terraced homes sliding past. "Yep," I said. "That's someone's house." "Blue car! Two dog!" "Two dogs? You sure?" She nodded fiercely. "One sit. One bark." I laughed and kissed the top of her head. "You've got good eyes." We curved past the old canal bridge, where ivy clung tight to the bricks like the years hadn't passed at all. On the right, the Ebbw River glinted through gaps in the trees, brown and fast today, swollen from yesterday's storm. "Water," she murmured, quieter now, her finger tracing its bend.