A quiet moment follows as the light continues to fade. Papa and Peter remain near the edge of the garden while the others head inside to prepare dessert and to start the slow transition from outside to inside, from day to evening, from this moment to the next.

Peter sips the last of his tea. "You know," he says quietly, watching the daffodils nodding in the breeze, "you made this place yours, you know. This life. You've built it."

Papa watches Tima chase Eira down the garden path, Stick, Stick raised like a banner. Eira leads her around the flower patches and past the herbs, shouting "Faster! Run faster because the kingdom needs us!" "No," he replies, "We did. All of us. Even her."

Peter nods, eyes a little misty in the golden light. "Especially her."

---

The sky has dimmed to a sleepy blue, streaked with the last threads of peach and honey. Inside the cottage, the warm glow of lamps fills the quiet rooms. The day has settled into its bones.

The fire in the hearth crackles low, slow, like a lullaby humming itself. The grown ups speak in soft tones now, dishes clinking gently as leftovers are packed away and mugs are topped with evening tea.

Tima lies curled up on the big couch in the living room, her daffodil crown still perched askew on her curls, slightly wilted from all the royal business of the day. Her eyes flutter open now and then as she half listens to the comforting sounds of clatter and conversation, but mostly she is still, all energy spent.

Her fingers clutch Stick-Stick loosely against her chest.

Peter's mother lays a light blanket over her legs and kisses her temple. "Duw annwyl," she whispers, "sleep well, little flower."

Papa moves slowly, quietly. He bends down and lifts Tima into his arms. She stirs only slightly, mumbling a soft, happy sigh. One of her hands finds his collar.

Barefoot, he carries her upstairs. The floorboards know the sound of his steps and greet him gently. In her room, the fairy lights glow soft like stars, the plushies all waiting in their places. He lays her down and tucks the blanket snug around her.

For a moment, she opens her eyes, drowsy and honest. "Papa… We are home?"

He brushes a thumb across her cheek. "Yes, love. yes we are"

She smiles, the kind of smile only dreams can hold, and lets her eyes close for good this time. Her breath deepens. Still, peaceful.

Downstairs, the last cups are washed. Coats are buttoned, kisses exchanged on cheeks, goodbyes called into the hallway. Laughter still drifts from the door as the guests step out into the night.

Outside, in the dark, the garden sleeps too. The daffodils along the path nod in the breeze, their yellow heads catching the moonlight.

And in the window, resting on the wooden sill just beside the latch, the daffodil crown waits—slightly frayed, slightly magical. Left behind, but never forgotten.