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The Plass is quiet whenever she comes here: it's late at night, nearing eleven, but it was the only time she could come after the kids were tucked into bed and Johnny had dozed off in front of the footies playing in the living room again. There are only a few stragglers left, homeless or teenager or otherwise, wandering around aimlessly in the humid Cardiff night, but none of them pay her any attention as she slowly crosses the Plass to her destination.
After the explosion, it took more than a year to rebuild the groundwork of the Plass, so she'd been forced to miss the first anniversary—even though she knows, from what that captain had told her, that it's not where he really died, she also knows that it's the place where he spent the most of his time; and so the secret place that no longer exists feels a bit like his home, almost. Which is why she always comes back here, late at night once a year, every year, and lays a bundle of flowers at the base of the Plass' fountain as she does now.
"Hullo, Ianto," Rhiannon whispers to the night sky, so clear away from the lights of the city and with every star sparkling down brightly at her and her alone. "Brother—I'm here."