And then he saw it.
A weathered slab in a clearing no bigger than his kitchen at home, cradled by roots and shadow. Holy—not in the church sense, but in the way grief and sacrifice can bless a place.
He stepped closer and knelt, fingertips on the stone’s worn surface. In thePenalTimes, priests had risked their lives to say forbidden Mass here. People knelt in silence, their faith carried in whispers. Some came aching for peace, clutching belief like a holy relic, asking for a mercy they weren’t sure they deserved. Many had died for it—and the thought pressed against his ribs like a weight.
He reached into his pocket.
From Ross Castle, years ago.
One of their first trips to Killarney, before trauma carved deep trenches in their lives. They’d stood by the lake, fingers laced, sunlight dappling the water.
Joshua had crouched at the shore, sorting through the smooth, damp stones.
“This one,” he’d said, holding up a pale-gray piece with a dark stripe running through it. “It’s got a vein. Like it’s got a little heart.”
“You skipping it?”
“No.” Joshua had pressed it into Colin’s palm. “So Ross Castle’s always with you. Even when we’re not here.”
He’d carried it ever since.
He laidboth hands on the cool altar.
“Sarah,” he whispered. “I’m learning to make peace with what happened. I’ll always carry it—but differently now. You saved us. You savedhim. I’ll spend the rest of my life honoring that.”
His breath caught. “Han, my friend, I let you down. Part of me still wants to pay for that. But now I know you’d want more for me than penance. You’d want peace.”
“Josh…” His voice cracked. “Ghrá mo chroí, I’m coming home. Not whole. Not healed. But close—close enough. I’ll trust you to see. I’ll trust you to know. I’ll trust you to take me the rest of the way.”
He pressed his forehead to the stone and felt grace wash through him—fierce and humbling, like breath after drowning.
He kissed the Ross Castle stone and left it there. Joshua’s love, traded for the peace he’d found here. A piece of his heart for the grace he’d been given.
Near his hands, he noticed shallow grooves cut into the stone—small, rough crosses, some barely more than scratches, others worn soft by rain and time. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Layeredover each other until they blurred into one long, stubborn act of remembrance.
He ran his thumb along one, feeling the grit bite at his skin. Ordinary people had stood where he was standing, hearts hammering, watching the trees for soldiers and informers. Still, they’d come. Still, they knelt. Still, they’d marked this rock so the land would remember what they dared to do here.
Colin picked up a small, flat stone from the ground and hesitated. It felt foolish, presumptuous, to add his own mark to theirs. Who was he compared to the souls who had risked death for a whispered Mass?
Then he thought of Joshua’s face in the firelight. Of Sarah on his porch with her coffee mug and crooked grin. Of Hannibal, trusting him more than he trusted himself.
His hand steadied.
He pressed the makeshift chisel to the edge of the rock, where there was just enough bare surface left, and dragged it down. The stone fought him, but he kept going—short, careful strokes, his wrist shaking with effort. It wasn’t much to look at when he finished. Just a small, uneven cross tucked in among all the others.
“That’s me,” he whispered, fingertips resting on the fresh-cut lines. “That’s us. We were here. We survived.”
For the first time, the weight in his chest felt shared—spread out across centuries of fear and faith and stubborn hope, all anchored in this one, scarred stone. Now he understood why Aileen had insisted he visit this sacred place, why she had insisted he make it the last stop on his lonely pilgrimage. He wasn’t alone anymore. He stood with thousands of others who had faced their fears as he was facing his.
Near the edge of the rock, half-hidden by ivy, something caught the light—a small stone, smoky quartz veining its curve.
He brushed away the soil. Cool. Solid. Ordinary. But it felt right. Honest. Familiar. Like it belonged beside a compass and a penny.
Not a replacement.
A continuation.
He slipped it into his pocket, then looked back at the Mass Rock.
