Peter shook his head. "Only for the eternally hopeful. Shut last year."

"Huh. Thought they'd outlive the rain." Papa huffed.

There was a pause. The kind that meant something, but neither reached for it.

Peter leaned back and asked lightly, "So. How long you staying this time?"

Papa glanced down at the book, then at the grey light outside. "A bit."

"A bit bit? Or a longer bit?" Peter now looking at him...

"Long enough to miss the bins, probably."

Peter gave a small huff of laughter. "Always a strategic exit."

"Or," Papa said, nudging his shoulder, "a heroic avoidance of domestic responsibility."

They smiled — not too wide, not too sad. The sort of smile that holds memory at arm's length.

The bus hissed to a halt just past Tredegar Grounds. The drizzle had eased into a fine mist, hanging in the air like breath that hadn't quite left the lungs.

Papa zipped his jacket halfway, book tucked under one arm. Peter gave a little shake like a dog, glancing up toward the low sky.

"Well," Peter muttered, "it's not raining. It's just enough to be annoying."

"Like you?" Papa said beeming..

"Exactly like me."

They crossed the road toward the roundabout, stepping around a cracked bit of pavement and dodging a lime-green umbrella wielded by an old woman with battlefield determination.

The café on the corner hadn't changed much. It never did. Peeling linoleum by the counter. Faded floral oilcloths. The buzz of a mismatched fridge. It smelled like bacon grease and boiling kettles, the steam fighting the condensation on the windows. A place that had never once cared about being trendy.

Peter held the door and let Papa in first. The little bell over the door gave a tragic plink.

At the counter, a tired woman in her fifties — apron smudged, eyeliner defiant — looked up and grinned. "Back again, boys?"

"Only for your charm, Elin," Peter said, slapping a pound coin on the wood.

"Liar," she replied, pouring hot water with the practiced flick of a saint.

Peter ordered his usual: "Black coffee, nothing fancy. None of that..." he made a face, "...oat milk."

"You said that last time."

"And you gave me oat milk last time."

"I did... Because you need more fibre, cariad." said Elin, smile as wide as the vallyes.

Papa tried to slide his card forward. "Oh, I've got this."

Peter batted his hand away. "Absolutely not. Your student loan is worth less than the Mars bar in the vending machine at the college."

"I could Luup you."

"We are not saying the word 'Luup' in Risca. This is sacred ground." "Besides, that phone of yours is older than you are" Peter muttered...

Papa smirked and took a seat by the window.

The windows steamed around the edges, catching the orange of the traffic light — warm, even when everything else was cold and grey. Papa found himself thinking about colors again. Shades and tones when words felt too complicated.