"Temima," Mama repeated, her hand resting on her belly. "It means whole. Complete. It's Hebrew—from my grandfather's family. I want her to know she's complete before the world tries to tell her she's broken."

Steph reached out and placed her hand over Mama's, over the swell where Tima was. "That's a powerful name," she said, her voice thick. "That's a name with roots. That's a name that will hold her when things get hard."

She closed her eyes for a moment, and I realized she was doing something—speaking a blessing, or sending an intention, something from the tradition she carried. When she opened them again, they were bright.

"Temima," Steph said, speaking to the baby. "You're going to be loved so fiercely. You're going to be so held. Welcome, little one. We're all waiting for you."

Mama was crying now, but not the fog-tears. These were clear, clean tears of recognition. Papa had gone still beside her, his hand over his mouth, his eyes wet.

"Tima," Peter said from the kitchen doorway, testing the name. He'd been listening the whole time, silent as a stone. "That's a good name. That's a valley name now. Tima of Crosskeys."

The name was settled. The "Little Bird" had a name, and we had a destination. The fear was still there, but it was anchored now. We weren't just waiting for a biological event; we were waiting for Tima. And as Peter walked back into the kitchen, dusting the snow from his shoulders, he looked at us and saw two people who finally knew exactly who they were waiting for.

The stillness of the cottage finally shattered at three in the morning on February 6th. It didn't start with a scream or a dramatic burst; it started with the sound of a sharp, inhaled breath in the dark—a jagged edge cutting through the rhythmic hum of the freezing wind outside. The "Little Bird" was no longer content with the nest; the walls were closing in, and the world was beginning to move.

The air in the bedroom was ice. The heater had clicked off an hour ago, leaving the smell of woodsmoke and frost. Then, the sound. A low, guttural moan that didn't sound like her.

Her hand gripped mine in the dark. Her skin was burning, a stark contrast to the chill of the room. I reached for the lamp, the yellow light spilling across the bed. Her eyes were wide, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the ceiling. The "drift" was there, but it was different now—not a retreat, but a total, singular focus. Her body was a machine, and the gears had just engaged.

"It's time," she whispered.

I stumbled downstairs to wake Peter. He was already awake, sitting in the armchair by the fire's embers, waiting. "Call Steph," was all I said, and he was already reaching for his phone.