"Sounds nonsense. I wanted to scream, but I wrote a haiku instead."

She fished out a folded receipt and read:

Ethics is like fog Everyone pretends they see But no one's driving.

Peter gave a small bow. "Published poet. Incredible."

They started walking together, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm.

She carried on talking, all elbows and ideas, pivoting from gossip to grand theories with no transition.

"I swear that lecturer thinks Descartes was a lifestyle brand," she said. "He used the word synergy and meant it."

Papa made a sound of existential pain at that. "My soul just curled up."

They paused at the traffic light. A lorry passed with a blast of mist and exhaust, making them all flinch. Mama huffed and wiped her glasses with the hem of her scarf, leaving smudges.

Peter checked his phone. "The bus is in seven minutes."

She looked toward the direction of the stop, then up toward the canal path. The rain had eased again, just a whisper now. The sky cracked slightly with a warmer light, a patch of rose breaking through the clouds like a shy thought.

"We could take the canal?" she suggested.

Peter grimaced. "My soul just curled up again."

"Oh, come on. It's not even steep." Mama retorted.

"You say that, but every time I nearly lose a lung."

Papa glanced between them. "You two do complain artistically, I'll give you that."

Peter sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. "Fine. I'll walk. But only if someone carries me like the reluctant prince I am."

"Stick-Stick's busy today," she said.

They crossed toward the towpath entrance, boots clicking against wet stone. Behind them, the bus whooshed by — empty, hollow, gone.

They didn't look back.

"We need air," she said, swinging the old metal gate open with a squeak. "You need it."

Papa laughed, already following. "Resistance is futile."

Peter exhaled like a man betrayed. "I just want it noted that I voted bus."

"It's in the minutes," she called over her shoulder.

The canal path greeted them with a hush — a long ribbon of quiet shadow, laced with the soft drip of trees. Their footsteps tapped against stone and wet leaves, each fall a note in the rhythm of a slow autumn song. The cold pressed gently against their faces, not harsh but present. Real.

The light was syrupy — that thick golden hue just before the dusk folds in for real. Trees spilled amber along the path, catching in puddles, puddles catching in thoughts.

The water beside them moved in near silence, broken only by the sudden flit of a moorhen or the slow swirl of leaves caught in a forgotten current.

They passed the rusted crane by the lock, still wrapped in red-and-white tape like a half-hearted present.

"It's still not fixed?" she asked, incredulous.

Peter made a sweeping hand motion. "It's a deeply symbolic installation. Represents the industrial decay of post-coal infrastructure."