Steph made tea. She stood at the kitchen counter and drank it standing up, which was — and had been for four years — the only way she drank tea during daylight hours. Sitting down to drink tea was an evening activity. A luxury activity. An activity that belonged to the theoretical future version of herself who had time and didn't have yoghurt in her hair.

The house was quiet. Tima asleep on the sofa, covered with the green blanket. Eira somewhere upstairs, drawing or talking to herself or arranging something into a configuration that would make sense only to her. The central heating ticking. The fridge humming. The street outside empty, the way streets in Ty Sign were always empty on Saturday afternoons — everyone inside, everyone in their own orbit, the estate holding itself quietly until someone needed something.

Steph reached for the small altar on the kitchen windowsill — not consciously, just by habit. Her fingers touched the smooth stone she kept there, the piece of rose quartz she'd found in the Sirhowy and polished herself. She didn't say anything. Didn't pray. She just touched it, the way she sometimes touched the door frame, or the bannister, or the top of Eira's head — a small anchoring, a checking in with the physical world that held her.

The phone rang.

She picked up on the second ring, keeping her voice low.

"Hiya."

"Hey." Erik's voice. Road noise in the background, the muffled sound of a car heater. "How's she been?"

"She's been brilliant. She's asleep now — she passed out on the way back from the market."

"The market? You took them to Tredegar Grounds?"

"Puppet show, Welsh cakes, the works. Eira's convinced we missed the reindeer. Tima watched the puppet show like it was an important documentary."

She heard him smile. You could hear Erik smile — something about the breath, the way the silence changed texture.

"How's the job?" she asked.

"Boiler's older than Peter. He's convinced it's personal — says it's fighting him because it knows he's Cornish. We should have it done by tomorrow morning."

"Peter says hello?"

A muffled exchange in the background. Then: "Peter says he hopes you haven't let Eira reorganise his room again."

"Tell Peter his room was reorganised the moment he left. Eira has installed a sign that says 'Eira's Office' on the door."

More background noise. Peter saying something she couldn't catch. Erik laughing.

"Can I — is Tima awake? Can I talk to her?"

Steph looked at the sofa. Tima was stirring — the micro-movements of a toddler surfacing from a nap, the shifting, the frown, the hand tightening on Hoppy and then releasing. Her eyes opened. They focused on the ceiling, then the room, then Steph.

"Hold on," Steph said. She crossed to the sofa and knelt beside it. "Tima? Bach? Papa's on the phone. Do you want to talk to Papa?"