We left the flat early, the sky still holding onto its grey like a child refusing to wake. The pavements were damp from a light rain that must have come and gone before we'd even stirred. The air was cool but not cold, a hush to it—like the city was still somewhere between sleep and speech. We walked slowly, Tima tucked into her pram, Hoppy and Patchy strapped in beside her like dignitaries. She hummed something to herself, a cross between the owl song from last night and her usual morning tune about toast. At the corner café overlooking the Thames, we sat near the window. The place was still stretching into its day—mugs clinking, milk steaming, a radio low in the background murmuring the weather for towns we wouldn't visit. Monika ordered croissant and tea. I got Tima her toast triangles—slightly burnt at the edges the way she liked them—with just a brush of marmalade. A soft-boiled egg came in a little ceramic chicken, which made her gasp like she'd discovered treasure. "He's got a hat!" she announced, pointing at the egg's shell top. We peeled it carefully, Tima dipping toast soldiers into the yolk with solemn concentration. She offered the last piece to Hoppy, then to Patchy, then finally to Monika. "For your belly," she said. Monika ate it without flinching. "Perfect," she replied. "Just like her mother used to make me." I didn't say anything, just wrapped my fingers tighter around the tea cup. The warmth felt steadying. Everything else was starting to blur at the edges. Out beyond the glass, boats moved quietly along the river—brown water folding and unfolding in soft curls. Tima tracked each one like they were characters in a story only she could hear. "That one's going to the moon," she said, pointing to a barge with a red tarp. "And that one?" I asked. "To find Nana's shoes," she said simply. "She forgot them." Monika didn't look away from the boats. "Maybe they'll bring her back something else instead." Tima nodded slowly. "Like a flower." The table grew quiet. Somewhere far off, bells began to ring from a riverside church.

I checked the time. It was nearly time to go. The coach pulled away from Victoria with a soft hydraulic sigh, merging into the London morning like a slow thought. Tima leaned against the window, her fingers tracing little circles in the condensation, drawing shapes only she could name. Patchy and Hoppy were strapped into her lap, blanketed beneath her jacket like co-conspirators on a secret mission. Outside, the world moved in washed-out greys—wet pavement, steel sky, the blurred shape of traffic lights melting into each other. Everything looked like it had been painted in watercolour and left out in the rain. Tima squinted through the glass, then turned toward me with that look—the one that comes just before a question she's been holding in her chest for minutes. "Papa," she said softly, "do clouds cry?" I looked at her for a moment. Her hair was already tousled, eyes too big for her small face, cheeks warm from the bus heater. She looked like something ancient and new all at once. "Sometimes," I said. "When they've held too much for too long." She nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "But not all the time?" she asked. "No," I smiled. "Sometimes they just float." She leaned her head on my arm then, quietly absorbing the road's rhythm. The coach curved onto the motorway, the sound of tyres over wet asphalt a lullaby of sorts. Somewhere near the back, someone was rustling through a sandwich bag. A woman coughed into her sleeve. The driver hummed to himself, barely audible under the steady pulse of the engine. Tima's breath slowed. She wasn't asleep, but close—suspended in that childlike drift between waking and dreaming. She held Patchy up to the window so he could see too. "He's never flown before," she whispered. "Then today's a big day," I said. She turned back to the glass and began murmuring something—words without structure, more song than sentence. "Are you singing?" I asked. "No," she replied with a mischievous smile. "I'm cloud-talking."

"Well," I said, "tell them thank you." "For what?" "For not crying too much." She considered that. "Okay." The rest of the ride passed in that hush—motorway signs flicking by like thoughts we couldn't quite catch, the city giving way to open skies and the long, sloping concrete of terminals and towers. As we pulled into Heathrow, the mist outside grew just a little heavier, clinging to the glass like it didn't want to let go. And neither did I. We stepped off the coach and into the deep, humming belly of Heathrow—arrivals and departures blinking like stars across the boards above us. People moved in waves, luggage wheels clattering like distant hooves, the murmur of languages folding into each other. Tima gripped my hand tighter as we crossed into the terminal, her backpack bobbing with each step. Hoppy peeked out the top, his ears flopped sideways like he wasn't quite awake. "Are we flying now?" she asked. "Not yet," I said. "First we do the airport maze." "I like mazes," she said, instantly more confident. Monika and her husband walked with us as far as the first set of barriers, the goodbye forming around us without being spoken. Tima handed them a folded piece of paper she'd drawn on during the ride—a large blue plane, two very wonky stick figures, and a sun with sunglasses. "This is you," she said to Monika, pointing to the taller stick figure. "And this is you, Taid," to the one with triangle ears. "And this is your aeroplane house." They folded it carefully and promised to put it on the fridge. Then came hugs—tight, short, lingering too long to be casual but just brief enough not to break anything. "Fly safe," Monika said, brushing hair from Tima's face. "I'm the pilot," Tima whispered. "I never doubted it." And with that, we moved toward the long security line. It snaked like a lazy river through silver barriers, a choreography of shoes being untied, laptops revealed, trays stacked and nudged forward. Tima watched everything with wide eyes. "Why are people taking off their feet?" she asked. "Just their shoes," I said. "It's a weird rule." A young officer checked our boarding passes. He paused at mine. "'Super-Eric'?" he said, raising one eyebrow. "Is that… really your name?" "Legally, unfortunately.. yes," I said. "emotionally? Absolutely." He chuckled and waved us through. At the scanner belt, Tima placed Hoppy in the tray with great ceremony. "Be brave," she whispered. The officer smiled down at her. "Your friend's going through the X-ray now." "He's not just a hippo," I said, leaning in. "He's a high-ranking agent of the Intercontinental Plush Protection League." The officer nodded solemnly. "Then he knows the drill." Tima watched him disappear into the scanner. "Will they see his bones?" "No," I said. "Just his superpowers." Hoppy emerged unscathed, reunited with his handler. Tima hugged him as if he'd survived a harrowing ordeal. She placed him on her shoulder, whispering updates and secret codes into his soft fabric ear. I pulled our tray off the belt and repacked our things—passport, tablet, small snacks, the wrinkled boarding pass with a juice stain on it. I'd done this a hundred times before, but never quite like this. Not with her. The airport roared around us, but in that moment, it was just me, Tima, Hoppy, and the strange magic of moving through thresholds. We found a wide window overlooking the tarmac, our gate still blinking orange on the board. Outside, the planes lined up like great resting birds, tails painted in colours of countries we hadn't yet dreamed of. Tima pressed her palms to the glass, leaving small prints. "That one's going to the jungle," she said, pointing to a blue and white jet rolling slowly past. "And that one?" I asked. "To... cloud school." "Of course." We sat for a while, just watching. Planes taxied and turned, vehicles buzzed below with yellow lights spinning. Somewhere in the distance, a jet took off with a roar that made the windows hum. Then, as if drawn by invisible string, Tima turned and tugged me toward the small children's area tucked by the café wall. There was a soft play rug, a few plastic building blocks, and a faded bookshelf filled with picture books in six different languages. She plopped onto the mat and began building something with red and yellow blocks. "This is our plane," she announced. "But it has a chimney and wings and also it makes pancakes." "Top-tier engineering," I said. She giggled and held out a block for Hoppy to add. "Your turn." She giggled and held out a block for Hoppy to add. "Your turn." A few minutes passed—light and laughter and pretend instructions in Hippo-ese—before the first boarding call echoed overhead. Our flight number. Our gate. Final preparations. And just like that, the shift. Tima froze, block still in hand. Her eyes met mine and began to well, not all at once—but slow and unsure, like a tide turning without warning. "I don't want the plane now," she whispered. "Okay," I said, kneeling beside her. "We don't have to rush." She shook her head, lower lip trembling. "What if it goes too fast?" I wrapped her in my arms. "Then I'll be with you the whole time. Just like always." "But what if the clouds cry?" I looked down at Hoppy, nestled under her arm. "Then Hoppy will hold your hand, and I'll hold yours. We'll make a team out of it." Tima wiped her face with her sleeve. "But he's scared too." "Then I'll hold him too," I smiled, "and you can hold me." She nodded slowly, still unsure but listening. I took her little hand and placed it on my chest. "Feel that?"