"It represents someone not doing their job," she muttered, dodging a puddle.

She chuckled. "I almost fell in once, right there. Chased a paper boat too far."

Peter nodded. "I remember. You were seven. Socks filled with canal juice. Mum thought you'd dissolve."

"She made me wear wellies indoors for a week."

"You were a soggy legend," Peter said."

They paused at a bend where the water narrowed and ran quicker. The canal deepened here, its surface suddenly black and glinting — reflecting more sky than land.

They stood together for a breath.

"Looks like ink," she said quietly. "Or memory."

Peter tilted his head. "Depends who's doing the writing."

A wind stirred. The leaves above shook off a few more pages of the season.

They walked again, a little slower. Papa kicked a small stone into the water — it vanished with barely a ripple.

Ahead, the lights of crosskeys began to blink on one by one, like someone gently remembering.

By the time they reached the cottage, the sky had pulled its grey blanket over Risca, and the world outside felt gently tucked in.

The door creaked open with its usual reluctant sigh. They stepped into warmth and the soft, comforting scent of home — stewed leeks, a whisper of woodsmoke, and the faintest trace of lavender from the washing still hung over the back door. The warmth hit Papa's cold cheeks like an embrace. Real. Physical. The kind of comfort that didn't need words.

Coats were shed and flung over the bannister, wet wool heavy in their hands. Socks came off by the radiator in a damp, heroic pile, toes slowly remembering what warmth felt like. A low fire snapped and muttered in the grate, casting honey-gold light across the floorboards.

She moved like a quiet storm — already in the kitchen, already ladling out soup into chipped bowls, her hair damp around the edges and cheeks still pink from the cold.

Peter opened the fridge, leaned in, and immediately recoiled.

"Is this cheese meant to move, or is it preparing for battle?"

She called from the stove, "It's got more character than you do, Peter."

Papa collapsed into the worn armchair with a dramatic sigh, rubbing one eye.

"I'm not tired."

"You're always not tired when you sit like that," Peter said, bringing over the cheese plate with exaggerated care — holding it like it might bite.

They settled into the main room, the heart of the house. Cushions were tossed down. A blanket appeared. The low light from the lamp curved across their faces, softening everything.

The radio hummed quietly in the background — something old and vaguely jazzy. The table was set without effort, bread passed between hands, spoons tapping against ceramic bowls.

She tucked her feet beneath her, balancing her bowl on her knees.

"I had to pretend to care about postmodernism for two full hours today," she said. "That deserves a medal."

Peter raised his glass. "To surviving academia. And moving cheese."