Papa didn't reply. He just looked down at the little sleeping form in the pram and rested one hand gently on the worn duck-patterned quilt. Found family. The phrase settled over him like a blanket. Yes. That was it exactly.

The day passed slowly like that. In the evening the fire had been coaxed back to life. Not roaring — just enough to keep the edge off the room's stillness. Afternoon light came in pale and slanted, brushing the old floorboards in long bars of warmth.

Tima lay on her back atop a folded blanket, just close enough to the hearth to feel the flicker of heat. Her legs moved in slow, lazy kicks, little hands reaching for air, grabbing nothing and everything. Every now and then she made a small noise — half-giggle, half-cough — like she was surprised the world kept going.

Peter sat on the couch, half-propped with a cushion. A book rested on the armrest beside him, unread. He stared into the fire like it was a radio between stations.

Papa lay curled on the rug, his head resting against Peter's leg, eyes open but far away.

They didn't speak for a long while. Just the crackle of flame, the soft thump of Tima's heels against the quilt.

Peter's hand found the back of his head, rested there gently.

"I think… sometimes we plant memories in each other before we even know what they're for."

No reply came — not in words. Just the slight weight of Papa leaning a little more into him.

Tima gave a little sneeze. Peter smiled.

The room dimmed by a shade as a cloud passed. A breeze moved the curtain by the window. The warmth of the fire, the weight of the day — it all settled like wool over the quiet.

Papa's breathing deepened. Slowed.

Peter looked down and saw that his eyes were closed now, lashes still a little damp at the corners.

He didn't shift. Didn't speak.

Just kept his hand on Papa's head.

Outside, a jay called once. The fire popped softly.

Tima kicked again and began to hum something tuneless, a new song no one had taught her. A song of light and ceiling and half-remembered dreams.

The moment held — not in grandness, but in quiet grace.

Like something true, gently tucked away.

The phone buzzed against the counter, low and insistent.

Peter glanced down at it, then at the room. Papa was still asleep, curled lightly on the rug, breath steady. Tima had wriggled herself into a different angle of existence — one foot now poking out from the folds of her blanket, arms flung out like a starfish mid-dream.

He slipped into the kitchen, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

"Hey," he said, answering the call.

"Hey," came Steph's voice, a bit scratchy — tired, but warm. Like honey that had been sitting in the sun. "You free?"