Through the glass, Nain stood on the platform. She didn't wave at first. She just stood there, one hand closed around the stone, the other pressed to her heart. Tima placed her palm flat against the window. Then Nain raised her hand—slow, steady—and waved. Not frantically, not sadly. Just… fully. The kind of wave that holds everything in it. Every meal, every story, every lake, every night train chocolate in a napkin. The train began to move. Tima kept her hand on the glass until the platform was gone, until the station had dissolved into trees and track and open sky. Then she lowered it slowly and turned to me.

"She's still waving," she said. "I can feel it."

"She is," I said. I believed it too. The train from Östersund to Stockholm rolled through the morning in long, patient curves. Tima sat at the window, cheek against the glass, watching pine trees pass in blurs of green and gold.

We didn't talk much. Her thumb rubbed the edge of Hoppy's paw. The fields moved by like old lullabies. Somewhere past Gävle, she perked up, pointing suddenly. "Snow pig!" I blinked. "What?" She jabbed at the glass. "Look! There! That hill! It's like a pig lying down! See?" And oddly, I did. A mound shaped thing, maybe one of those bales of hay wrappen in plastic.. it looked like a resting beast, ears and all. I laughed, and she laughed with me, eyes bright. Then she yawned, long and slow, and rested her head in my lap. The rhythm of the train lulled us both. The sky outside dimmed into soft cloud cover, and the miles unwound behind us like thread from a spool. By the time we reached Arlanda, the airport was a maze of bright lights and lines. Everything echoing, rushing. But inside me, it had gone quiet. We found a corner seat by a wide window. Planes rose in the distance like metal birds. Tima napped on the bench, curled in her jacket, Hoppy under one arm, Patchy under the other. Her mouth slightly open, a soft little snore escaping now and then. I pulled out my journal. 10:42 AM. Arlanda. She's asleep. It feels like the whole trip was a bubble. No, a small perfect storybook with no spine. I want to press every page flat and never forget the smell of pine or the way she said "snow pig." I know she won't remember all of it. But I will. I closed the notebook slowly. Outside, a plane took off. Inside, I stayed still and full.