"She used to hum in minor keys just to make the dinner taste dramatic," he said. "Everything was a performance. Everything had music."

Steph smiled at the pot. "Exactly."

He looked up at the darkening sky, a faint smudge of violet still clinging to the west. A single star blinked above the ridge. Then another.

"She said she couldn't stay mad at me if I sang to her," he said. "Even if it was bad."

"Was it bad?"

"Oh, dreadful."

Steph passed him a warm bowl. "She always said you had a voice like wet flannel and stubborn hope."

Papa chuckled, low in his chest. "That sounds about right."

For a while, they just ate. The only sound was the soft clink of spoons and the hush of wind moving through grass.

Then, after they'd finished, and Tima had begun to breathe slow and deep, Papa reached for his phone.

"I found this the other night," he said. "One of her playlists. Just… background stuff she used to play when she worked in the garden."

He tapped the screen. A faint buzz, and then a slow acoustic guitar slipped into the night. Nothing polished — just a warm strum and a voice that felt like old denim and dusk. The kind of song you didn't realize you remembered until the second verse.

Steph didn't say anything. She just leaned her head lightly on his shoulder.

The stars thickened above them.

The breeze had died down, and the trees above made a kind of hush, like a soft breath held in reverence.

Tima stirred once, murmured something wordless in sleep, then settled again.

Papa's hand rested lightly on her back.

The song played on.

Not loud.

Not needing to be.

Just present.

And the silence that followed wasn't empty.

It was full of breath and memory.

Full of her.

Full of them.

They broke camp in near silence, the kind that doesn't ask for words. Tima yawned against Papa's chest, still tucked in the wrap, her little hat pulled down over her ears. She blinked at the grey world like it was a dream she hadn't quite left.

Steph packed the burner and the empty bowls into her rucksack with the practiced rhythm of someone used to movement. She handed Papa a warm bottle for Tima and a square of oatcake wrapped in a napkin.

"Fuel," she said, nodding toward both of them.

He took it, murmured a quiet thanks, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

They started down the trail. It was still early enough that the mist hadn't burned off, and the valley below stretched like a pale sheet, soft and open. The earth was damp, but the rocks were warm underfoot. The wind had gentled overnight.

Papa took the lead this time, Tima snug against him, her little hands tucked beneath her chin. Steph followed a few paces behind, humming something under her breath — not for them, exactly, just for the rhythm of walking.