Papa stood at the counter, one hand steadying Tima on his hip, the other attempting to spread jam with a butter knife that had seen better days. She was babbling her usual morning commentary — a mix of vowels and what might have been opinions on the weather.

"I know," he said to her. "Apricot wasn't your first choice. It wasn't mine either."

She grabbed at his shirt collar, tugging with the focused determination of someone conducting important research.

Peter appeared in the doorway, Eira trailing behind him in mismatched pajamas, carrying a stuffed sheep under one arm.

"You're up early," Peter said, surprised.

Papa shrugged. "Tima had opinions about 6am. Loud ones."

Peter moved to the kettle, flicking it on. "Fair."

Eira climbed onto a chair and studied Papa with the seriousness of a judge. "Did you bring me a rock?"

Papa blinked, then remembered. He fished in his jacket pocket — still hanging by the door — and pulled out a small grey stone, smooth and cold.

"From near the top," he said, handing it to her.

She turned it over in her hands, nodded with approval. "It's a good rock."

"High praise," Peter said, pouring tea.

Papa settled into the chair opposite, Tima still on his lap. She reached for the toast, and he broke off a small piece, let her gum it into submission.

The kitchen was quiet — not the heavy quiet of grief, but the soft quiet of morning. The kind where things were still waking up.

Peter set a mug in front of Papa. "You sleep?"

"A bit. More than usual."

"Mountain tired?"

"Maybe." Papa looked down at Tima, who was now investigating the texture of jam with scientific focus. "Or just... tired in a different way."

Peter sat, sipping his own tea. Eira had started building something with the rock and a handful of spoons, narrating softly to the sheep.

"You okay?" Peter asked, the question simple but real.

Papa thought about it.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But I think... I might be starting to learn how to not know. If that makes sense."

Peter smiled. "It does."

Through the window, the morning light came in pale gold. The world outside was waking — birds starting up, the rustle of wind in the trees, someone's car starting down the lane.

Tima made a small sound — almost a word, not quite.

Papa looked at her, really looked. At her grey eyes, her small fingers still sticky with jam, the way her hair stuck up at odd angles no matter what he did.

"I think she has her laugh," he said quietly.

Peter glanced up.

"The way she giggles," Papa continued. "When something surprises her. It's... it's the same."

Peter didn't say anything. Just nodded.

Papa kissed the top of Tima's head, breathed her in — milk and sleep and the faint smell of mountain air still clinging to her clothes.