"What are they on about?" Peter's mother asked, setting down her tin on the counter next to Steph's rolls.

Papa smiled, watching the two small figures disappear. "St David's Day decorations, I think."

"Of course they are," Peter's mother said warmly. "When I was Eira's age, I made so many daffodils I thought the whole house would turn yellow. My father said we were bringing spring inside, making sure Wales stayed bright."

From the living room came the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustle of paper, followed by Eira's voice shouting: "Cymru am byth!" which Tima repeated like a battle cry, not understanding the words but feeling their weight—Wales Forever, the words meant, the ancient call of a nation that had survived everything.

By late morning, everyone had gathered what they needed: water bottles, walking boots checked for stones, coats claimed from the pile by the door. Tima had insisted on bringing Stick-Stick, the gnarled walking stick she'd found last spring and never relinquished. It was taller than she was, and she carried it like a treasure.

"What's that?" Peter's uncle asked, pointing at Stick-Stick.

"My walking helper," Tima said seriously. "It knows where to go."

"Well then," he said, "who are we to argue with a walking stick?"

Papa helped Tima into her coat, fastening the buttons with the same care he gave to everything. "You warm enough?"

"Warm enough," she confirmed.

Eira bounced on her heels by the door, already impatient. "Can we go now? The forest is waiting."

"The forest can wait five more minutes," Peter said, doing a final check of the thermos. "It's been there for two hundred years. It won't mind."

But Eira was right. There was a current in the air now—the gathering energy of a day that was becoming something. The daffodils were still blooming outside, though the morning frost was melting. The sky had cleared to a pale, promising blue.

Everyone gathered their things. Bags were shouldered. Hands found hands. They headed toward the door and into the morning that had become something rare and necessary: a day when the whole scattered family was together, remembering why they gathered at all.

The trail into Cwmcarn Forest was dappled with light. It spilled through the branches in lazy patches, moving gently as if the trees themselves were rocking the sun. Leaves from the last night's storm still clung to the edges of the path, soft underfoot, soaked through and fragrant with that rich, earthy breath only valleys know. The air was cool but not cold—that perfect temperature where moving felt natural and necessary, where your breath came easy.

This was Risca's forest—the valley's lung, as the old miners used to say. Before the coal pits, before the industry that had shaped the whole region, this forest had stood here. It would stand long after. The River Ebbw flowed somewhere below, threading through the valley like a vein, connecting Risca to the wider world.