Sometimes it hits you like a brick — the quiet ache of realisation. How time has slipped through your fingers without you noticing, how days have melted into weeks, weeks into years, until you look up and realise life has been quietly carving its way through you all along — soft and slow, like water wearing down stone.

It’s one of those late summer days when the sun hangs low and tired in the sky, and the air feels heavy with the last breath of the season. The garden glows in honeyed light, every blade of grass catching fire under the fading sun. The air hums with the sound of cicadas, and the scent of warm soil lingers like a memory. The kind of evening that feels suspended between worlds — summer not yet gone, autumn not yet born.

Your brother’s backyard is bathed in gold. The old porch creaks beneath you as you sit, watching the light settle on the horizon, watching time fold quietly around you. Johnny’s laughter drifts through the air — low, warm, familiar — and somewhere in that sound, you can trace the years you’ve shared. Every summer the same pilgrimage north, every visit stitched into the fabric of your life like a recurring dream.

The twins — your brother’s boys — tumble across the grass, their freckled faces flushed with joy. They’ve grown taller this year, the baby-roundness of their cheeks giving way to something new, something older. Their laughter rings out like bells, wild and bright.

It feels like yesterday that Johnny had met them for the first time — back when he was still a sergeant, still more wild heart than weary captain. You remember the way one of the boys had clung to his neck within minutes, small fingers tangled in his hair, and Johnny, all soft eyes and easy laughter, had pretended his heart wasn’t breaking with tenderness.

You think of the summers since — of Johnny teaching them how to skip stones across the loch, how to whistle through a blade of grass, how to tie a proper knot. Of him carrying one of them asleep on his shoulders after fireworks, or sitting cross-legged in the dirt showing them how to carve a slingshot from a branch. Each memory another stitch in time, another reminder of how much life has passed between then and now.

The porch swing shifts beside you with a deep, theatrical groan. Johnny drops into it, sprawling like a man twice his age, wiping sweat from his brow. His hair is damp and sticking to his temple, his shirt clinging to his back, and he looks far too pleased with himself.

“Christ almighty,” he mutters, half-laughing, “yer nephews could take on a bloody regiment. Think I’ve pulled somethin’ tryin’ tae keep up wi’ them.”

You smile, eyes soft. “You love it.”

He glances at you, grin tugging at his lips. “Aye, maybe I do. Don’t tell ‘em that, though. They’ll never let me live it down.”

The twins appear again, eyes sparkling, fists clenched in mock readiness. “Come on, Uncle Johnny! We haven’t finished the wrestling match yet!”

Johnny raises his hands in surrender, laughing. “You two are relentless! Gimme a second before I keel over right here on the lawn, aye?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Alright, you two — let your uncle breathe for a minute. Poor man’s getting old. His bones can’t keep up with you anymore.”

Johnny stills mid-laugh, turning his head toward you with mock offence. “Old, am I?” he says, brows shooting up. His voice dips, that familiar Scottish lilt rolling off each word. “That what ye just said, hen?”

“You heard me, Captain. Might be time to swap the combat drills for a walking stick.”

His lips twitch into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh, that’s how it is, eh? Think ye’re funny, do ye?”

“I know I am.”

He leans closer on the swing, the wood sighing beneath his weight, his hand brushing lightly against your knee — a deliberate touch that lingers just a moment too long.

“Careful now, bonnie,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, that teasing lilt heavy with promise. “Ye keep runnin’ that smart mouth o’ yours, and I’ll show ye later just how much these old bones can still make ye beg.”