I paused in my sketching, looked down at Tima—this tiny, tangled shape asleep beside me, her mouth slightly open, breath slow and steady. She had no idea how much she was carrying. Not yet. Just like I hadn't. That thought made my chest tighten, not with grief, but with the strange weight of love—the kind that lives across years and generations, silent but solid, passed down through raisins and bus windows and too many spare socks. I finished the sketch, added a small heart on Hoppy's belly, and wrote the date in the bottom corner. Then I closed the pad and just watched her sleep, the road unwinding ahead like ribbon. London was drawing closer now. But for this moment, we were still somewhere in between—held in the rhythm of the wheels, in the breath of memory, and the hush of a little girl dreaming beside a hippo. The coach sighed to a halt at London Victoria, brakes hissing like steam escaping from a kettle too full. The doors opened and the morning city poured in—horns, shouting, suitcase wheels, a thousand shoes moving in a thousand directions. Tima blinked awake against my chest, confused, flushed, Hoppy caught between us like an extra limb. "We here?" she mumbled, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand. "We're here," I said softly. "Big city now." We stepped off the coach into the hum. People pushed past with bags and rucksacks, coats flapping like wings, phones pressed to ears. The ground vibrated slightly with trains underneath, and the ceiling of the station stretched up like a cathedral made of movement. Tima's fingers dug into my coat. She didn't speak. Just clutched Hoppy tighter, his stuffing now permanently rearranged from the pressure. I crouched on the edge of the concourse and fished into the snack pouch. "Banana," I said, peeling it halfway. "For brave explorers." She took it without a word, her other hand still locked around Hoppy. Each bite came slowly, her eyes tracking every motion around us like a deer in a meadow full of unfamiliar rustles. I pulled her into my lap, arms wrapped loosely around her, letting her watch from that safe circle. I whispered a list to ground her—"Red bag. Tall man. Blue shoes. Dog. Pigeon. Two pigeons now." She nodded along, banana bite by bite.

"Too big," she whispered finally. "Just for now," I said. "We'll find our quiet soon." And we sat like that—still in the chaos—until the world softened just enough to breathe again. From the station, we took the side streets toward St James's Park, the city narrowing and widening in waves. I carried her most of the way, her arms loose around my neck now, Hoppy slung over my shoulder like a strange diplomatic satchel. The sky was clear, the light sharp—cutting across old stone and through iron fences like a postcard come to life. The park opened like a sigh. We followed the curve of the lake, passing joggers and tourists, pigeons pecking in perfect rhythm. Tima stirred against me, eyes adjusting to the quiet, the rhythm of leaves instead of engines. Then I saw her. Monika—her other Nain—standing near the bench beneath the willow tree. Hair neat, jacket sharp, her eyes already scanning the path. She looked like she wasn't sure whether to smile or brace. Tima raised her head and looked. "That Nain?" she asked, not sure. "Yes, love," I said. "That's your Nain." We approached slowly, steps falling into some rhythm I couldn't name. Monika stepped forward and knelt, not speaking yet. Just watching Tima with a softness I hadn't seen in a long time. Tima studied her for a moment, then placed Hoppy gently in Monika's lap like an offering. Monika blinked, then smiled. "Hello, darling," she said. "What a fine hippo you have." Tima didn't say anything. Just nodded once. Then Monika stood and looked at me. And did something she never really did. She hugged me.

No words, no polite squeeze. Just a real, full hug. And I stood there, stiff at first—then folding into it, something giving way. My throat burned, and I blinked hard, once, twice. She didn't let go right away. When she did, she placed her hand gently on my cheek and said, "You've done well." And I couldn't speak. Only nodded, holding everything in that breath. We sat by the lake a while after that, ducks drifting past, the city muffled behind the leaves. Tima leaned against Monika's side, quiet and watchful. And for the first time in years, it felt like a circle had started to close. Monika adjusted her scarf, brushing a leaf from the bench between us. "She's taller." "Just a little," I said. "She speaks more now. Has a way of looking at things." "She sees everything." Monika smiled faintly. "Like her mother." That part always made my throat catch, still. I glanced at her, unsure if we were stepping into memory or just passing by. "She remembers you," I said. "She'd better," Monika replied, teasing just enough. "Though I wouldn't blame her if she'd forgotten my voice. Half a year... it's too long." I nodded. "It wasn't meant to be." "No. But life's not always meant." She took Tima's hand gently in hers and traced a thumb across the soft curve of her knuckles. Tima didn't flinch or pull away. Just watched a goose glide past with the stillness only toddlers seem to possess when they're at peace. "You know," Monika said, her voice quieter now, "I never blamed you. Not really. There were moments... of course. Moments when I didn't understand. Still don't. But I never hated you. I just—didn't know how to be near it. Any of it." I nodded again, slower this time. "I didn't know how to bring her either. Until now." She let out a soft breath. "You did right." We sat with that. "I keep thinking how much her mum would've loved this," I said. "Tima in a sun hat, feeding pigeons like they're ancient gods." "She would've," Monika murmured. "Though she'd have cursed about the pigeons." "She always did." We both laughed—low, unsure, but real. Tima reached up and placed Hoppy on Monika's lap, ceremoniously. "For you to look after," she said. Monika blinked. "Well," she whispered, "that's an honour." I passed her a small photo from my coat pocket. One from last month—Tima asleep in the garden, hat crooked, mouth open mid-dream. "For your fridge," I said. She took it, and for a long moment, said nothing. Just pressed it flat against her chest. "She's magic," Monika finally said. "She is." We sat until the bells of noon echoed over the rooftops, the breeze picking up faint smells of popcorn and traffic. Tima laid back on the bench and watched the clouds. Monika stood and brushed off her coat. "Right," she said. "You two need to get across the river before the city eats you whole." I smiled. "Not if Hoppy gets there first." She offered me her arm in that strange, formal way she sometimes did when emotion got too close. I took it anyway. And we walked slowly toward the gate, the three of us—almost like it was any other day. Almost. The apartment in Woolwich hadn't changed much—not in its bones. Same creaky stairwell with the blue carpet frayed at the edges, same stubborn hallway light that flickered once before deciding to work. The door still stuck slightly at the hinge, and the air inside smelled exactly like it always had—lavender soap, clean floor polish, and warm Polish rye bread cooling on the counter. Tima paused at the doorway like she was entering something sacred. Monika ushered us in with the lightness of someone who'd spent the last hour building courage to do so. Her coat was already on the hook before I'd even unzipped mine. Tima slipped off her shoes slowly, placing them side by side next to a pair of old house slippers. The living room was washed in late sun, curtains half-drawn. A fan hummed gently in the corner. The same crocheted blanket draped over the arm of the sofa. The same porcelain swans on the shelf. And the photos. Everywhere. Dozens of them. On the walls, across the sideboard, tucked into frames on top of the bookcase—snapshots of a whole lifetime, frozen smiles and weddings, birthdays, beaches, sepia-toned summers. I saw her there—Tima's mum—at fourteen, at seventeen in a photo from the forest just weeks before she gave birth. Holding her bump. Eyes uncertain, glowing. Tima walked straight to the wall of frames without hesitation, dragging Hoppy along by the tail. She scanned the photos with the focus of a detective. Then she pointed, tiny finger outstretched. "Oooh," she said, almost a gasp. "This is my favourite of Mama." Monika turned sharply. "That one?" It was a photo I hadn't seen in years—her mum, age sixteen maybe, in a sunflower field, arms stretched wide, caught mid-laugh. Hair wild, eyes closed. A summer dress and sky above her. "Yes," Tima said, pressing her cheek to the frame. "She looks like a song." Monika's hand flew to her mouth. She didn't cry, not exactly—but she looked as though her chest had been opened for a second too long, and the wind had gotten in. I knelt beside Tima, placing my hand on her back. "She picked that one," I said quietly. "No prompting." Monika just nodded. "She looks like a song." In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off. "Let's have tea," Monika said, her voice steadying. "And I've got apple cake from the Polish shop. She always loved that." Tima was already halfway to the table, Hoppy seated on a dining chair like royalty. And just like that, the space became shared again—not perfect, not repaired, but gently rethreaded.