The bus wheezed as it pulled out of the Newport station, its tired suspension creaking under the rain-slicked passengers and the weight of another grey afternoon. Inside, it smelled like damp coats, stewed coffee, and something faintly floral from someone's stubborn perfume.
Near the back of the upper deck, Papa sat slouched with a small, battered philosophy book cracked open across his knees — its pages feathered and smudged with pencilled notes. A pen was tucked behind one ear, forgotten. The margins of the book were a battlefield of thoughts and contradictions.
Peter sat beside him, arms crossed, watching the wet streaks race each other down the window. His hoodie was too thin for the rain, but he hadn't brought a coat, of course.
"Apparently," Papa said, tapping a sentence like it had personally wronged him, "freedom is just theatre where everyone's forgotten their lines."
Peter snorted. "Speak for yourself. I'm brilliantly unfree. Award-winning, even." Papa closed the book with a sigh. "I'm meant to connect radical autonomy to social responsibility. Do you think Nietzsche ever had to write an essay while some daft bugger was pelting him with raisins during form period?"
"Nietzsche was the year nine pelting people with raisins," Peter said, stretching out his legs and shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. "Anyway, you're overthinking it. Just write 'God is dead, but I'm not — unfortunately,' and hit word count. Job done."
Papa closed the book on a sigh, thumb still marking the page. "I can't hand in irony as a conclusion."
Peter shrugged. "Why not? We live it. Every day."
They fell into a companionable silence as the bus wound its way out of the city and into the edges of the valley. The drizzle thickened into a steady curtain. Buildings thinned, replaced by hedgerows, stubborn trees, and soaked fields that seemed to slump in on themselves. The hills leaned in like they were eavesdropping.
A pair of teenagers with wet trainers and massive headphones got on near Tredegar Park, their coats dripping trails. An older man further down coughed — not politely, not discreetly, but with the thunderous authority of someone who had been perfecting his performance for years.
Peter flinched and muttered, "Right in the soul, that one. Man's got lungs like a foghorn."
Papa stifled a laugh. "Coughing with Nietzschean purpose. The will to phlegm."
He shifted, glancing sideways at Peter. "So. You still good to help me with the bathroom door tomorrow?"
Peter made a face. "I thought I was sleeping through Saturday, cariad. That was the plan."
"You can sleep while holding the screwdriver. I've seen you do it."
Peter smirked but didn't say no. "Aye, alright. But I'm not promising miracles, mind."
The bus slowed again, brakes hissing. Outside, Risca blurred through the wet glass — slate rooftops, yellow daffodil wreaths in windows, the quiet, familiar pulse of a place that didn't know it was waiting for anything.
Papa squinted out at the shops. "Gibbons still open?"