Papa turned his eyes to the rain, which was slanting now in the garden light. "I just thought... when they saw we were serious. That we'd stayed. That we're—" He broke off, shaking his head.

Peter finished for him. "—Still here."

The words sat between them, simple and heavy in the way that only the truest things can be.

A beat. Then Papa said, "It's funny. When we got here, I thought I'd hate it."

Peter chuckled. "Too quiet?"

"Too green," Papa admitted, smiling faintly. "Too... open."

"And now?"

Papa took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out slow. "Now it feels like I can breathe."

Peter raised his mug. "That's the forest. Steals your heart one leaf at a time."

They both sat with that for a moment, the rain hissing gently down the roof. Beyond the kitchen window, the edge of the garden glistened. Beyond that, somewhere behind the hedge and bramble, the river Ebbw sang its low, endless song—the same tune it had carried since before anyone thought to name it.

Papa tilted his head toward it. "How far do you reckon it runs?"

Peter looked amused. "Long enough."

"No, really."

"It comes down through Ebbw Vale, curls past Crosskeys and Risca... slides past us, and joins the Usk. Eventually spills out into the sea."

"So it touches everything," Papa murmured.

Peter nodded. "Washes its face in every town along the way. Carries stones and whispers and bits of people's lives."

Papa looked back toward the darkened window. "We should walk it one day."

Peter raised a brow. "The whole thing?"

Papa grinned. "Sure. You, me... and the kid."

Peter laughed, warm and full. "You do realize that's several dozen miles of hills and stiles and sheep and midges?"

"I like a challenge."

Peter clinked his mug gently against Papa's. "To someday, then."

Papa echoed it softly. "To someday."

And outside, unseen but not unfelt, the Ebbw flowed on—quiet, unhurried, already remembering.

The rain fell long into that night, thinning toward dawn until the garden held only silence and the slow drip from the eaves. Seasons turned. The child came, and the world rearranged itself around her.

A lifetime, the blink of an eye, many a stories later.

The windows of the fish bar glowed golden against the soft grey of the autumn sky. Inside, the smell of crisp batter and vinegar hung heavy and comforting—the kind of smell that stitches itself into the bones of a childhood, so that years from now, one whiff of it would bring everything back. Tima sat between Papa and Peter in a red vinyl booth, her feet swinging freely, her paper cup of juice cradled in both hands.

She looked up at her plate. "Can I dip my chip in your curry sauce, Papa?"

"You may," Papa said, sliding it closer with mock ceremony. "But only if you recite the official Curry Chip Oath."

Peter groaned. "Oh no. Not this again."