"Open it," he said, handing it to me as we pulled out of the city.

Inside was a crib. Not brand new, but solid—wood the color of honey, clean cotton mattress, a small pillow that still smelled faintly of lavender. My stomach twisted.

"Peter, this must have cost—" I started, the words sticking. "I cannot accept this. It is too much."

"Steph had it from Eira," Peter interrupted, his eyes on the road. "She'd been storing it. Didn't need it anymore. Free to a good home. Which is you lot."

I knew it wasn't free. I knew Peter had probably paid for it, or traded something, or done one of his mysterious Cardiff favors to acquire it.** But I also understood that he was giving me a way to accept it. A way that didn't require me to acknowledge the debt.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"Don't thank me," Peter grunted. "Just make sure the little bird doesn't scratch it up. And when you've got your fancy degree from Gwent and you're making proper money, you can buy Steph a nice dinner. That'll square us, boy. That's how we do things round here."

He said it like it was an easy transaction—future security for present help.** And maybe that was the only way love worked in the Valleys. You gave what you could now, and you trusted that when things shifted, the people you'd helped would remember. You became part of a circle, and the circle held.

I looked at the crib and let myself believe in the future he was describing. Me with a degree. Her with art qualifications. The little bird growing up in the cottage with the yellow flower. A future where we could actually contribute, where we weren't just perpetual recipients of Peter's grace.

The evening settled into the cottage with the familiar, heavy scent of leeks and lamb. Peter had been hovering over the stove for hours, coaxing a cawl into existence—the traditional Welsh broth that was more of a hug in a bowl than a meal. Outside, the garden was a dark, square silhouette through the glass, the wind rattling the gate like it was asking to come in.

We ate by the hearth, the fire casting long, dancing shadows across the stone floor. She was sitting on the rug, her back against my knees, holding a handful of crumpled papers from her afternoon seminar.

"Okay, listen to this one," she said, her voice dropping into a mock-serious, academic drone. "It's for the 'Modernist Structure' assignment. I call it The Logistics of Being Wrong."

She began to read, her clever, sarcastic wit cutting through the cozy air of the room. Every stanza was a sharp-edged observation of the world—the way people wore their scarves, the hollow sound of the bus engine, the 'subjective objectivity' of her lecturers. It was brilliant, slightly biting, and quintessentially her.