I’m sitting on the low stone wall beside the lake, just like I did the day so long ago when I first started to heal. It’s still quiet here. But it doesn’t feel empty anymore. I sit by the water tonight and don’t wish for anyone to talk to. Not even Joshua. That feels wrong to admit, but maybe it’s the best thing I’ve felt in years.
For once,I’m not ‘Colin Campbell-Abrams, prosecutor, protector, hero.’ I’m just Colin, and, thank God, that’s actually OK.
That boy is stillin me—the one who came here after Kathy died, the one Danny rescued, the one who survived. And he’s looking at me now, saying,It’s time.
Sarah walks with me here—notas a ghost, not as guilt, but as courage.
I reachinto the pocket of my jeans and pull out the worn penny. Still there. The edges smooth from years of riding in her pocket—or mine. She gave it back to me the week before the blast, setting it on the edge of my desk. “You flipped this the day you took the job,” she said. “If it landed heads-up, you’d try to believe you could still do some good.”
Now it rests in my palm. Heads-up.
I’m still trying, Sarah. And I’ll keep trying—I promise.
I closedmy fingers around the coin and held it tight—like it might anchor me to the part of myself that hadn’t burned away.
She died doing her job.
And I owe it to her to live like that means something. I eased the penny back into my pocket, next to my compass. She deserved steak, safety, and a long, happy life. Instead, she gave me my life—and more importantly, she gave mehis.
I won’t forget.
I remember:
Sitting on the grass, right here at Ross Castle, with Joshua between my knees and my arms around him. We were still hurting from some ridiculous squabble, still feeling raw and a little prideful.
Then he leaned back, touched my hand, and whispered,
“I love you. And I’m so sorry.”
And just like that, the storm inside me stilled.
I see:
Ross Castle rising from the mist. Steady. Beautiful. A soul deep light within me. Unchanged.
But I’m not. I’ve walked too far for that.
I feel:
Whole enough to begin again. Still scarred, yes—but not shattered.
Not anymore.
Tonight, I’ll send one more postcard.
Just one.
And this time, I’ll write on it.
He closed the journal and rested his palm on the cover, holding it there as if sealing something in—or letting something go.I have just one more place to visit,he thought.
Aileen had pointed him there with that gentle firmness she always carried, her hand over his on the kitchen table. “Go there last,mo mhac. It’s fitting. You’ll understand why when you arrive.” She’d slid a folded paper across the table—hand-drawn directions, marked with soft pencil and steady lines. A place hidden in the woods and sacred in its silence.
The Mass Rock. Pike Wood. Once meant for whispered prayers and secret faith. A place, she said, where grief wasn’t laid down to be rid of it, but to give it meaning. Now it waited for him. Carved by faith. Marked by loss.
The morning wasquiet in the way only Irish countryside can be—low clouds brushing the treetops, a wet hush in the grass. Colin walked alone, boots soft on the narrow lane, gravel shifting underfoot. No signs. No voices. Just crows in the distance and the bleating of sheep across a field.
The trail to Pike Wood curved past an old stile. He crossed it without thought, fingers grazing moss-dark stone. The air in the wood was cool and damp. Ferns brushed his calves as he followed the faint path worn by memory as much as by feet.
