Hamza watched her go, feeling the warmth of the fire starting to reach his bones. The room was dark, heavy. Firewood stacked along the chimney breast, empty glass cabinets. Aged oak furniture. Driftwood on the windowsills. And some old maps of the sea hung under the low ceilings. Hamza’s eyes were instinctively drawn to them. He could hear Nefyn moving dishes in the kitchen. The older maps with their sinewy lines, illustrated with wrecks and sea monsters. They glowed in the firelight. She returned, two bowls of soup in her hands. She placed one in his lap, put the spoon in his right hand, made sure he could lift the spoon to his mouth before she sat on a low stool opposite him. They ate, listening to the fire.

‘This is good,’ he said, his voice weak.

Nefyn nodded. The sound of their spoons on the crockery. Hamza watched her for a moment, put down his spoon. Waited for the words to come to him. ‘My grandfather was a fisherman too.’ Nefyn listened, the light of the fire warming the tone of her skin. ‘He had maps, of the sea.’ Nefyn followed his gaze, turned her head to look behind her at the maps. Looked back at him. ‘He would let me look at them when I was a child. Old ones, from when people really used them to try and understand the world.’ He swallowed, each word painful. ‘He showed me portolan charts of the sea … the clay maps of Iraq.’ His face softened and Nefyn smiled. ‘I really loved them … there was wonder in them. So much possibility.’

Nefyn watched him, waited for him to continue but he didn’t. He closed his eyes, a shadow coming across his face. Nefyn put down her bowl, her spoon clattering. She got to her feet, slid her arm under his.

‘Come,’ she said gently. ‘You need to rest.’