Papa stirred on the sofa, one arm flung over his eyes, the other curled across his ribs. His jumper was rumpled and slept in, jeans creased and twisted at the knee. He hadn't meant to sleep there — just sat down the night before and never quite got back up.

Across the room, Tima babbled to herself in the soft little nest by the hearth — a makeshift circle of cushions and the faded quilt with ducks on it. She waved her hands like she was conducting invisible music, legs kicking gently against the edge of her blanket. Every now and then she made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.

Peter's footsteps were soft on the wood floor, the sound of a man used to not waking babies. He held a steaming mug in one hand, already dressed and cleaned up, hair still damp from the shower.

"Up, cariad," he said gently, nudging Papa's foot with his own. "Tea's decent this time. No promises on the toast, mind, but the tea won't kill you."

Papa groaned, more out of habit than protest, and sat up slowly, scrubbing his face with both hands. He looked like a man made of thin thread — held together by sleep and stubbornness and not much else. But he reached for the mug.

Tima squealed at the sound of his voice, flapping her arms like she was conducting the morning into being. Peter grinned and scooped her up, holding her with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times and would do it a hundred more.

"She's hungry," Peter said, already pulling a bottle from the little warming tray near the stove. "You're on feed duty. I'm on eggs. Fair's fair."

Papa took Tima with a half-smile, the kind that doesn't reach the eyes but still tries. She tucked against his chest like she belonged there — which, of course, she did. He held the bottle awkwardly, hands a bit unsteady, and she latched on like a champ.

Peter turned back to the stove, cracking eggs into the pan. The sizzle filled the quiet. Somewhere outside, a crow called once, then silence again.

The rhythm was simple, domestic — not healed, but moving.

Papa looked down at Tima, who blinked up at him with those storm-grey eyes, milk-drunk and calm. Her little hand curled around his thumb.

"I dreamt of her again," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Peter didn't turn around. He just nodded and kept stirring.

"Was it the one where she's standing in the kitchen, or the one with the train?" he asked softly.

Papa looked up, surprised. Then shook his head with a tired laugh.

"Neither," he murmured. "This time she was humming. Couldn't see her. Just the sound. Something tuneless. The way she used to hum when she was working on a drawing."