"Yep. That's the river, cariad. That's where ducks go to do their secret business." She giggled, that high hiccup-laugh she only did when something caught her just right. As we rolled through Crosskeys and out toward Rogerstone, she kept her commentary coming—half-whispers, half-declarations. "Tree!" "Crane!" "Big bin!" Every object was a discovery. Every graffitied underpass an ancient ruin. She pointed at one that read LOZ + EM 4EVER, the paint dripping slightly in pink. "Love," she said. "Yeah," I smiled. "That's someone's love, written big so they don't forget." She seemed to think about that, then leaned back into me, her small hand clutching Hoppy's tail like a lifeline. The hum of the road filled the silence between her words, and I matched my breath to hers, slow and sure. I watched the city inch closer through the window—flats growing taller, streets busier, signs bigger. Newport just ahead, and a whole adventure after that. But for now, this moment. The river, the graffiti, the names of things as told by a little girl on her way to somewhere new. The world had never looked more alive. Newport always felt like a pause between chapters—big enough to feel like a city, quiet enough to still hear your own thoughts. We stepped off the bus into the hum of late morning. Traffic rolled steadily down the hill. The market was half-busy, the air full of fried onions and something sweet baking nearby. Tima held my hand and walked with that odd toddler mix of purpose and drift—swinging Hoppy by one arm, stopping every few feet to examine a crack in the pavement or a gum mark shaped like a cloud. "Look," she said, crouching to poke at a dandelion bursting through the curb. "I see it," I replied. "Urban flower power." She grinned, then darted ahead toward the riverwalk.

The River Usk flowed wide and brown and lazy beside us, dragging bits of yesterday's leaves in looping circles. We reached the railings near the old footbridge by the theatre. A few gulls squabbled on the far bank. I lifted her up so she could see properly. "Big river," she whispered. "Yep," I said. "One of the big ones." She rummaged in her pocket and produced a pebble—probably stowed from Tredegar Park earlier. She held it for a moment like it meant something, then tossed it underarm into the water. It plunked in with barely a splash. "Made a wish," she said, serious. I blinked. "You did?" She nodded, eyes not leaving the ripples. "Wish for cake." "Truly noble." She giggled and turned around just in time for a pigeon to burst from a nearby bench. It flapped up into the air with a racket of wings and startled feathers. Tima gasped. Then she shrieked with laughter, stumbling backward into my legs and pointing. "FLAPPY!" "It was very flappy." "Too flappy!" Her joy spilled out like sunlight. I knelt down and kissed her on the cheek, warm and sticky from banana. She wriggled in my arms, then pointed at the theatre sign. "What that?" "That's where people play pretend and wear silly hats and say things loudly." She considered that. "Like telly?" "Exactly. But louder." She nodded as if something important had just clicked into place.

We stood there a little longer. The river moved on, the city moved around us, and the wind picked up just enough to ruffle the edge of her coat. "Time soon?" she asked. "Soon," I said. "But not just yet." She held my finger tighter. And we stayed, just long enough for the world to become simple again. The coach stop outside the theatre wasn't much—just a stretch of pavement with a metal bench and a sign that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since before Tima was born. A faded map flapped in the breeze behind cloudy plastic, and someone had left half a sandwich on the seat. We were early. Of course we were. Tima stood with one foot on my boot and the other spinning in small, slow circles on the concrete, Hoppy tucked under one arm like a well-travelled diplomat. "Where's our rocket bus?" she asked, looking up with those big, serious eyes. "Maybe it's invisible," I said. "Only appears if you hop on one leg and shout the secret password." "What's the password?" "Hmm." I leaned in close, cupping her ear. "Bananapants." She squealed with laughter and repeated it at full volume: "BANANAPANTS!!" An older man in a flat cap turned from his newspaper with a grin. A girl with purple hair waiting with a suitcase gave us a thumbs-up. Tima beamed like she was powering the city. We wandered up and down the short stretch of pavement. She counted the suitcases: "One, two, three, purple one!" Then the pigeons: "One, two, running away!" More people arrived—teenagers with headphones, a woman humming to herself with a crochet bag, a family juggling snacks and a stroller. Everyone looking in different directions, but with the same clock ticking behind their eyes. I crouched next to her and pointed at a far-off speck on the road. "That one maybe?" She squinted. "Too tiny." "You're right. That's probably just a regular cow disguised as a bus." She leaned against me, serious again. "Our bus go to the sky?"