The hymn was sacred—not in a church way, but in the way that old songs are sacred to a people. It had been sung in these valleys for generations, by miners before they went underground, by mothers rocking children to sleep, by people who understood that the greatest riches weren't material.

Tima joined in after the first few lines, though her words trailed off halfway through, replaced by soft humming and gentle nonsense syllables that sounded like her own language. Eira giggled beside her, then joined in too—her five-year-old voice clear and earnest, getting about half the words right but committing fully to the tune, making it her own.

Papa's eyes had that faraway look—the one that comes when you realize you've found something you didn't know you were searching for. When you understand, suddenly and completely, why a place calls to you. He watched the valley below, watched his daughter humming a hymn in a language she was only just learning, and felt something shift inside him—like a door opening to a room he'd been walking past forever.

Papa looked out across the view—the long sweep of the valley, the scattered cottages below, the ribbon of the road threading through it all—and felt the quiet swell behind his ribs. There was laughter and steam and sun, and the sound of pine needles in the breeze. There was family, chosen and blood-bound together.

Tima leaned against him and whispered, "This is the tallest place in the world."

He smiled, sipping his tea. "It is today, love."

They took the trail back down in a gentler silence than the way up—full from the view, from the walking, from one another. Feet kicked pinecones ahead like goals; pockets filled with forest trinkets. The clouds had broken apart entirely now, leaving the valley dressed in gold.

The wind picked up slightly as they descended, carrying with it the smell of the river and something else—smoke from a distant chimney, woodsmoke from last night's fires. The woods were beginning to feel less like wilderness and more like home approaching.

Instead of heading straight back to the cottage, the group turned off toward a familiar corner—The Darran Arms, tucked low and square by the old road, red letters slightly faded, the hanging sign creaking in the breeze. A chalkboard out front read:

"St. David's Day Family Quiz! 1PM – All ages welcome. Cymru am byth!"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Anyone fancy proving their brain still works?"

"Only if we get a prize," said James, rubbing his hands together.

Steph winked at the girls. "Bet you two could win it all."