Peter stayed in the kitchen a while longer, watching the steam curl from the mug he hadn't made yet.

Something about the room — about the whole cottage — felt steadier than it had that morning. Not fixed. But leaning, just slightly, toward something like hope.

The kitchen was cool but not unkind. Early morning light came through in pale stripes, catching the edge of a mug, the curve of a spoon. The kettle hummed low — not a boil yet, just thinking about it.

Peter stood at the counter, spreading jam on toast with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times before dawn. Behind him, the radio crackled softly — weather forecast, traffic, someone complaining about roadworks near Cwmbran.

At the small table, Eira sat strapped into her booster seat, legs swinging, one hand gripping a plastic cup of milk like it might make a run for it. She was two and a half, all wild curls and serious eyebrows. She wore mismatched socks — one with ducks, one with dinosaurs — and a jumper with porridge on the sleeve.

"No," she said, firmly.

Peter didn't turn around. "I haven't even asked yet."

"Still no."

He smiled into the toast. "Fair enough."

He brought the plate over and set it down. She eyed it with deep suspicion, as if jam might be a trap.

"Is it strawberry?"

"Raspberry."

She scowled. "I wanted strawberry."

"You said raspberry yesterday."

"That was yesterday." She picked up the toast, sniffed it like a detective, then took the tiniest bite known to humankind. "It's okay."

Peter poured himself tea, leaning against the counter. "High praise."

Eira kicked her legs harder, a rhythm only she understood. "Where's Tima going?"

"Up a mountain. With Steph and Papa."

Her nose wrinkled. "Why?"

Peter thought about it. "Because sometimes people need to go up to come back down better."

She processed this with the gravity of a judge. "Is Tima going in the backpack?"

"Probably."

"I want to go in a backpack."

"You're too big now, cariad. You're practically a giant."

She held up one hand, measuring herself against the air. "This big?"

"At least."

She took another bite, thoughtful. Then, with her mouth still half-full: "Can I have a biscuit?"

"After breakfast."

"This is breakfast."

"After you finish it."

Eira sighed like she carried the weight of centuries. "You always say that."

"Because it's always true."

She squinted at him, testing for cracks in his resolve. Finding none, she returned to her toast with theatrical reluctance.

Peter sipped his tea and watched her. She had his stubbornness, her mum's sharpness, and some inexplicable third thing that was entirely her own — a kind of feral logic that made perfect sense if you tilted your head just right.

She looked up suddenly. "Is he sad?"

Peter paused. "A bit. Yeah."

"Because of she left?"

"Yeah."

Eira nodded, solemn. "Mum says people go away sometimes but they don't stop being real."