Steph laughed. "Those are the worst seagulls I've ever heard." "They're not seagulls," Eira said. "They're memory birds." I looked at her then—at the way she was standing, steady on the stone, chin lifted just slightly—and I knew something had settled into her already. Some understanding. "This is your last play for a while," she said to Tima, not unkindly. Tima looked up at her, paused, then nodded once. "Okay," she said. Then splashed both feet into the shallow water with determined joy. They played along the gravel path after that, collecting leaves and twigs like they were precious things. Tima held out a feather to me at one point. "For the plane," she said. "To help it fly." I took it, placed it in my pocket like something sacred.

The benches were still cool when we sat for a moment, Steph and I. We watched the girls chase each other around a tree, sunlight painting their shadows long and fast. She leaned against me gently. "You alright?" "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, I think so." We didn't move right away when the play slowed and the birds went quiet. We just watched them, holding the warmth of the morning like it was something you could carry. Maybe you can. Maybe that's all we ever do. The Snug always smelled like cinnamon and warm bread. The kind of place where the windows steamed even in summer, where the chairs didn't match and no one minded. We found our usual table near the front—wood chipped at the edges, a small vase of fake daffodils in the centre.

Steph ordered while I settled the girls. Eira sat facing the street, legs swinging under the table, watching the early Risca bustle. Tima climbed up beside me, still clutching Hoppy, eyes wide at the trays of scones and jam. The server brought two plates of buttered toast, crusts cut off, just how they liked it. Tima took one triangle and broke it carefully in half. One for her, one pressed gently into Hoppy's stitched paws. "He hungry too," she said softly, brushing a crumb from his ear. I nodded solemnly. "Travelling makes you starved."

Eira giggled behind her cup of apple juice. "Does he need a passport?" "He has one," Tima replied with absolute certainty. "It's secret." Steph returned with two mugs and a sigh, sliding into the seat across from me.