Peter whispered, "He's definitely asleep now, or whatever that thundering noise is called."

She laughed and took another sip of tea and whispered back, "Then we won't ask what colour he is. Some things are better left glowing."

They sat in that light for a while. The kind of moment you don't know to treasure until later.

The fire clicked and whispered, low and steady, as if trying not to wake him.

Papa had drifted fully off now, one hand curled beneath his cheek, the other loosely draped across his stomach, still clutching the corner of a philosophy book like he meant to finish a thought before dreaming got in the way.

In the corner of the room, she folded laundry — shirts and socks warmed by the hearth, fragrant with that faint trace of rain. She moved slowly, not out of tiredness, but with a kind of practiced gentleness, smoothing fabric with care that made even Peter feel quieter.

Peter sat on the floor, back against the worn arm of the couch. His legs stretched out in front of him, fingers idly picking at a frayed thread on his sleeve.

She hummed, at first absentmindedly — just a few notes beneath her breath. But the tune was familiar, enough to catch Peter's ear.

"True Colors," he said, not looking up.

She smiled, kept folding. "That was on your old CD, wasn't it?"

She paused for a moment, then nodded. "The scratched one that skipped on every chorus."

Peter gave a quiet laugh. "Still knew every word though."

"Didn't need the disc to remember." Her voice was soft now. "Just needed a bit of quiet, like this."

The room breathed around them. Rain began again, a light tapping on the roof like fingers seeking a rhythm. The kind of rain that asked nothing of you but still kept you company.

Peter shifted, leaning his head back. The ceiling above them held the orange flicker of firelight dancing with shadow.

He looked over at her, folding the last shirt. "You think it'll all be like this in five years?"

She shrugged, not unkindly. "Things always change. But if we're lucky…" She glanced toward Papa, sleeping soundly. "...the important bits stay."

Peter nodded, eyes back on the fire.

No more words were needed.

Just the rain, and the faint, trailing hum of a tune that had meant something once — and would come to mean more than any of them could yet know.

Many, many, moons later, in the world that came after..

The cottage smelled faintly of old toast and damp stone — the kind of smell that only settles in places where time has softened the corners. Pale light pushed through the gauze curtains, more suggestion than sun, the kind of grey morning that didn't care what time it was. Outside, the fog pressed gently against the glass, not in any hurry to leave.