Tima walked in step with Papa, her small hand wrapped snug in his. Stick-Stick bobbed in her other hand like a walking staff that led armies in her mind. Eira skipped ahead, her bright scarf trailing like a comet tail, and Peter followed behind them both, his voice already setting into story cadence—the way he had of telling stories, like he'd been waiting all morning to share them.

Tima stopped walking suddenly. "Papa. Papa! There's moss!"

He knelt beside her without complaint, letting her show him the thick green velvet coating the base of an old oak. The moss was soft, almost fuzzy, like something alive and gentle. Tima pressed her small palm against it carefully, like she was touching something precious.

"It's soft. Real soft," she whispered.

"It is," Papa confirmed, letting her explore it with her fingertips. "Real soft and real alive."

"But why?" Tima asked, the question of all three-year-olds. "Why is it here?"

"Because the moss likes it there," Papa said, which seemed to answer everything at once.

The trail tilted gently upward, winding through old pines and younger birch trees. The pines smelled like ancient things—like memory and time lived slowly. Tima's boots crunched on last year's acorns, a rhythm beneath the walking. Lichen in orange and sage green marked the older rocks like paint someone had applied carefully, by hand.

Peter's father kept a slow, steady pace, one hand resting on his walking stick more for rhythm than true need. His breathing was measured, patient. Peter's uncle wheezed dramatically every few minutes, stopping to catch his breath with exaggerated gasps. "If I survive this," he muttered to no one in particular, his voice echoing slightly between the trees, "I expect cake. Three slices. Minimum."

"Noted," Papa said, smiling at the familiar complaint.

James, tall and lanky, gestured out toward the deeper woods with the kind of fondness of someone remembering something good. "I ran a marathon through here once. Years back. Half-mad idea."

Peter turned, incredulous. "You ran? Here? On purpose?"

"I did."

"On purpose?"

"Foolishly, yes."

"You finish?"

"Of course. I even cried at the end."

Steph snorted. "From joy?"

"From shin splints."

Laughter scattered between the trees like startled birds.

Tima and Eira had stopped again, crouched near a fallen log. "Look at this!" Eira said, holding up a pinecone wrapped in spiderweb silk. "It's like it's wearing lace! See how delicate? Because the spider made it so careful."

Tima gently touched the moss on the log. "Is there a house under here? For the bugs?"

"Maybe," Papa said, settling down beside them. "What do you think?"

"I think yes," Tima said with certainty. "And they're sleeping."

"Then we should be quiet," Eira said, taking Tima's hand with the authority of someone much older. "Don't want to wake them up, so they can sleep and be safe."

They walked on more softly after that, as if the forest itself had asked for gentleness.