As though I’m walking through two Irelands—the one under my boots, all stone and rain and wind, and the one running in my blood, carried in my family’s voices, their stories, their losses. And through all of it, Josh is there—not in the flesh, but threaded into every thought and breath, like he’s always been here and always will be. But something shifted today—the wind and water took more than I expected. I don’t know if it’s freedom or just the breath before I pick up the weight again.
Colin turnedthe corner and spotted the sign—O’Riley Home Improvement—with faded blue letters above a narrow shopfront, tools in the window like proud relics. Inside, it smelled of cedar and machine oil. Familiar. Honest.
Cory looked up from behind the counter, did a double take, then broke into a grin. “Well, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—look what the cat dragged in!”
Before Colin could say a word, Randy came out from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. “Who’s this scruffed-up hound? Is it really you, Collie, or just your ghost?”
“Saw Danny. Now I’m walking to Killarney,” Colin said.
“You feckin’whatnow, Col? Jaysus, and here I thoughtwewere the mad ones.” Cory laughed. He wrapped Colin in a tight embrace and then urged him toward the back of the shop. “C’mon,a mhac. Let’s knock some of the road off ya.”
Colin smiled—and for the first time in days, it felt real.
They didn’t ask why. Didn’t pry. Didn’t push. Just locked up early, made stew in the little kitchen upstairs, and poured him a pint. One night became two. Then three. No pressure. Just rest.
On the second morning, Cory gestured around the cluttered workspace behind the counter, tools hanging neatly above well-worn benches. “We’ve orders up the walls and not enough hands between us,” he said, catching Colin's eye. “Wouldn’t mind a fella who knows his way round timber, so we wouldn’t.”
Colin felt a flicker of warmth. “It'd feel good.”
Randy smiled and tilted his head towards a half-finished piece. “That custom cabinet’s waiting on finishing touches. Fancy putting your mark on it?”
Colin ran his hand over the grain, fingertips tracing the knots like a roadmap. Wood didn’t lie. It was what it was—scarred, strong, forgiving. A lot like him. Or the version of him he was trying to remember.
He nodded, rolling up his sleeves as the scent of fresh-cut timber filled him with quiet purpose. “I’d like that.”
He didn’t talk much, and neither did they. The work was enough.
On the last night, Colin sat at the table, feet aching, sawdust still clinging to his cuffs. The postcard rested beneath his hand—Limerick at dusk, lights just starting to glow.
He didn’t write anything. Just flipped it over, addressed it, and dropped it in the box outside the shop.
A silent message:I’m still walking. Still breathing. Still loving you.
Colin’s JOURNAL
Days Six,Seven, and Eight - In Limerick
Sitting in Cory’s kitchen. Leaving tomorrow morning.
I’ve started measuring who I am as—before the fire and after the fire.
Like I’m two different people—which, I suppose, I am.
Before, I thought strength meant never slowing down. Just keep moving, keep the cracks hidden, keep the world from seeing you falter. I wore that like armor.
After, I see how much of me burned in that fire—how much of the man I was turned to ash… or scar.
And yet here I am—hands on something solid again.
Sanding along lines that follow the grain.
Letting the wood teach me patience, steadiness.
Becoming my father’s son.
Maybe what’s left is enough to remake a life.
Maybe the good parts of before-the-fire Colin have started to walk this road with me.
