Papa's head lolled slightly — eyes open, but only just. His notebook was in his lap, pen fallen into the sofa cushions. One page was half-filled with crooked scrawl:

Nietzsche: freedom is a kind of courage… or maybe just giving up pretending you know the plan.

"Deep," Peter said, peering at it. "You should get that tattooed."

She looked toward Papa, her voice soft now.

"Come on then, sleepy poet. Talk to me about colours."

He blinked sleepy. "Colours?"

"You said something on the canal. About writing. I was thinking… colour's a kind of language, isn't it?"

Peter leaned back. "Here we go…"

But he was smiling.

And the fire kept humming its old tune.

The soup had mostly been eaten. Bread crusts sat forgotten on napkins. Outside, the sky was doing its best to apologise — streaked now with post-storm pink, soft lilac bruises spreading behind the hills.

She leaned against the window frame, a mug warming both hands.

"Look at that," she said. "Looks like the clouds are blushing."

Peter glanced up from where he was attempting to balance a biscuit on Papa's sleeping knee. "From what? Embarrassed they flooded the whole town again?"

She smiled without turning. "No. Just… sometimes the world gets overwhelmed too."

Papa, half-awake now, murmured, "That's not in my textbook...."

She turned, resting her head against the glass.

"You ever feel like a colour?"

Peter squinted. "I feel like tea. Does that count?"

She tossed him a kitchen towel. "no really..."

Peter pointed at himself. "Alright then, what about me? What colour am I?"

She studied him, fingers wrapped around her mug. A teasing smile tugged at her mouth.

"Charcoal and stubbornness. The kind of charcoal that's been through fire and came out stronger. Dark, but not cold. You hold heat even when you don't look like you're burning."

Peter raised a hand, mock-proud. "A classic palette. Moody but useful."

Papa stirred slightly in the chair, eyes still closed.

"He's smoke with a soft core," papa said, voice gentler now.

"I'll take that," Peter said, settling back against the cushions.

Papa cracked one eye open. "What about you?"

She was quiet for a moment. The fire cast her face in slow-moving light, and something softened behind her expression.

"Sunlit honey," she said finally. "With streaks of stormcloud. The kind that never quite pass but don't ruin the day." She looked at the fire. "How honey can be gold and amber and almost brown — all in the same jar, depending on the light."

Peter nodded slowly. "Sounds like a flavour of cake."

She laughed. "I'll take that."

Outside, the world had quieted — no more drizzle, just the occasional hush of water sliding from a branch.

The fire was down to whispers. Papa, still half-listening, blinked once and let the warmth claim him. His head tilted, breath slow and deep.

Peter nudged the blanket over him, and Papa started to snore.