The path home is quiet, save for the crunch of tiny shoes against gravel. Rowan walks slightly ahead, taller and a touch more confident, while Willow trails beside him—her curls bouncing with each step, her hand tightly grasping his.

You and Fred walk just a few steps behind, arms brushing every so often, but mostly quiet. Watching.

He nudges you lightly with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “They’re getting too fast. I swear, by next week they’ll be running the shop.”

You glance toward the two toddlers and smile. Rowan’s already pointing at something ahead, like it’s a secret only he knows, and Willow looks up at him as if the entire world is hiding in his little freckled face.

“They’re only two, Freddie.”

“Exactly. That’s two years of surviving parenthood. We should get an award. Or a bloody nap.”

You laugh under your breath, but his hand finds yours a second later—warm, a little calloused from rebuilding the shop, steady.

The twins pause at a fork in the path, uncertain. Rowan looks back at you both, his eyes the exact shade of Fred’s. Willow stays close beside him, waiting, trusting.

Fred squeezes your hand gently. “We made them, you know. That’s wild.”

You nod, watching them choose the left path—the one that leads straight home. “It is.”

He leans closer, voice soft. “They’ll grow up here. With us. Safe. Loved.”

You don’t answer, not with words. Just a small smile, one that says you’ve thought about it too—every day since the war ended.

The twins’ laughter echoes ahead, and Fred tugs you forward, chasing after them.

The path is long. But it’s yours.