They didn't talk much. The silence wasn't heavy. It was steady. Honest.

Midway down, they paused where the ridge opened to a clearing — a view that, on a clear day, would show half of Gwynedd. Today, it was a field of clouds.

A bird called from the gorse — a sharp, sweet note that cut through the hush.

Tima stirred.

She looked up suddenly, eyes wide, and reached toward the sound with one small fist raised skyward.

Papa followed her gaze, his mouth half-open in surprise. The smile that came next wasn't just for her. It wasn't for the bird, either. It was something quieter. Less performative. Like a piece of sunlight coming through woodsmoke.

He kissed the top of her head without thinking.

Steph, catching up, saw the moment and didn't interrupt. She just stood beside them and looked out into the brightening fog.

"I think we're halfway to being mountain people," she said lightly.

Papa laughed — a real one, short but warm.

"I'll need better socks."

Tima babbled something that might've been agreement. Or a story only she understood.

The trail curled on beneath them, winding through lichen and stone. They followed it, boots soft on moss, breath visible in the morning air.

They didn't rush.

And it felt — not easy, but possible.

The car came into view like an old promise — a little silver speck waiting faithfully at the edge of the woods. Steph groaned as she dropped her pack, stretching her back and shoulders with exaggerated effort.

"Remind me to get a proper bed next time," she muttered, rotating her neck.

Papa laughed softly, unbuckling the wrap around his chest and lifting Tima out with practiced care. She was warm and pink-cheeked, smelling faintly of milk and fire smoke. Her eyes fluttered open, then shut again.

He sat her gently in the front seat while he fetched a clean nappy and a bag from the boot. Steph raised an eyebrow. "You're brave."

"Needs must," he muttered, awkwardly crouching and maneuvering tiny legs and tabs with far more gentleness than skill.

Steph busied herself sorting the gear into the back. She handed him a spare wipe before he asked for one, and he gave her a grateful nod.

Tima giggled mid-change, and Papa grinned despite himself. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"

They climbed in — Papa in the passenger seat, Steph behind the wheel, Tima bundled in back. The doors closed with a soft thud. The heater ticked on.

Steph turned the key.

The engine coughed to life, and with it — the radio.

Static, then music.

"You with the sad eyes…"

They didn't speak.

Steph glanced sideways. Waiting.

He met her eyes. Gave a small, steady nod.

The car pulled away, tires crunching on gravel. The song carried them out of the trees.

Not closure.

Continuing.

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and something almost resembling coffee.