Tima lay curled in the hammock bed, one arm flung over Patchy, Hoppy tucked beneath her chin. Her hair fanned across the pillow like stray light. I paused, just watching her, holding that fragile stillness. From the kitchen, the scent of toast and coffee drifted in. Nain stood by the window, one hand on her cup, the other resting on the sink ledge as she looked out toward the tree-lined street.

She didn't speak when I entered. Just gave me a small nod, as if to say she'd been here before—this kind of goodbye, the quiet kind, the kind you pack in layers. We moved around each other with familiarity. I packed the last things into the bag, zipping it shut slowly, the sound loud in the hush of morning. By the time Tima padded out of bed, hair like a wild crown, the kitchen was warm with toast, jam, and boiled eggs. We sat close at the table, sharing small bites and softer looks. No one said much. Words felt heavy, and unnecessary. The tea steamed between us like a bridge.

When it was time to go, Tima pulled on her boots without prompting. She hugged Nain tight, arms squeezing round the neck, burying her face in the curve of her shoulder.

"You smell like cake," she mumbled.

Nain laughed, and something caught in her throat. "You smell like summer." We walked together to the station—all three of us this time, Nain insisting. The morning was cool and bright, the kind that makes you walk a little slower because the light is too good to rush through. Tima held both our hands and swung between us, her boots scuffing the pavement in a rhythm that sounded almost like a song. At Östersund Station, the platform was quiet. A few early travellers stood with bags and thermoses, eyes on the departures board. The train south was already there, idling, its long silver body humming with patient energy. I set the bags down and crouched beside Tima to check her laces. She was quiet. Her hand found Hoppy in the pocket of my bag and pulled him out, holding him close. Nain stood a few steps back, hands clasped in front of her, watching us with that particular steadiness she had—the kind that didn't flinch, didn't waver, just held. "Time to go, cariad," I said gently. Tima looked at the train, then back at Nain. She walked over slowly and reached up, pressing something into Nain's palm.

It was the white stone. The one from the lake. The one she'd said was for keeping. Nain looked down at it. Her lips trembled, just once. "I'll keep it on the windowsill," she said. "Where the light hits it first." Tima nodded, satisfied. Then she hugged her again—quickly this time, fierce and sure—and turned back to me. Ready. We climbed aboard. Found our seats by the window. The doors beeped and closed with a soft hiss.