I woke up to find the sofa empty. The blanket Peter had draped over us was folded neatly at the end of the cushions. From the kitchen, I heard the familiar clatter of a heavy ceramic mug meeting a countertop and the low hum of Peter's radio—some Welsh news segment playing at a volume designed not to wake the dead, but certainly to nudge the living.

When I wandered in, Peter was standing by the stove, his back to me. He was wearing an old, oversized wool jumper that looked like it had been knitted by someone who had lost their place in the pattern several times.

"Morning, sunshine," he said without turning. "Kettle's just boiled. There's toast, but don't touch the butter yet, it's still harder than a Cardiff prop."

She was sitting at the small wooden table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug. She looked softer this morning, the sharp lines of the Greenwich tension having blurred into something more peaceful. Her hair was a wild, unbrushed halo.

The kitchen was narrow—barely room for two people to pass without turning sideways. The morning light came in at an angle through the single window above the sink, catching the dust motes and turning them gold. The countertop was scarred wood, decades of knife marks and tea stains giving it character. Everything had its place: the kettle on the left burner, the mismatched mugs on hooks above the sink, the bread box with its chipped green paint sitting beside the toaster.

"I had the dream again," she said quietly, as I sat down beside her.

I reached out and rested my hand on her arm. "The one with the lighthouse?"

"No," she smiled, looking into her tea. "The one with the garden. But this time, the flowers weren't flowers. They were people we knew, but they were all made of glass. And there was this little yellow bird—bright, like a spark—flying between them. It wasn't breaking anything. It was just... making them ring. Like bells."

Peter set a plate of charred toast on the table. "Sounds like a metaphor for this household, love. A bunch of glass people being managed by a very small, very loud bird. Sounds about right, that does."

The air outside was crisp, the kind of cold that made your lungs feel clean. We left Peter to his crosswords and his "solid" butter and walked out toward the path that led away from the village.

Crosskeys was waking up in patches. A trail of blue smoke rose from a chimney nearby; a dog barked somewhere up toward Risca. The hills—our hills—were draped in a thin veil of mist that made them look like they were still under the covers. September had arrived with bright, sharp hope—the kind of weather that made everything feel possible. But now, deep into the progression toward winter, the air had weight. It pressed down, preparing us for the long, dark months ahead.