Page 9 of The Ache That Stayed

I could already see velvet in the west wing. Ash wood floors. Lamps that would make the stone feel like skin instead of bone.

Rooms always told you what they needed if you listened long enough. Not in words, just in the way light avoided corners, in the way sound fell flat or bloomed.

The place smelled faintly of peat smoke and old polish. Like generations had tried to warm it and only ever managed to soften it. Some spaces begged for warmth. Others demanded temperance. And sometimes I trusted spaces more than I trusted people.

From the outside, the manor stood proud, its symmetry untouched, its walls still standing. Inside, shadows lingered in corners that refused to give up their secrets.

I understood that kind of architecture. Looking whole while something darker lived silently beneath the surface.

“You came at the perfect time,” she said, looping her arm through mine as we walked the grounds. “If we push hard this month, we’ll still make the deadline.”

The manor rose around us—old stone, stubborn lines, history etched into every surface. Wind scraped across the stone like it was trying to sand it down into dust. Salt lived in the air this close to the coast—faint, metallic, clean in a way that made everything else feel temporary. Beautiful in a way that demanded respect. I slowed near the main staircase, running my fingers over the bannister.

“I still can’t believe your uncle left this to you.”

Ritu snorted, like the word uncle left a bad taste in her mouth.

“It’s the least he could do,” she said. “After spending most of his life treating me and my mum like we were… temporary guests.”

I glanced at her. She shrugged, eyes scanning the ceiling like it bored her.

“Thank God he never married. Never had kids. Because honestly?”

She huffed a dry laugh.

“Those kids would’ve been all shades of fucked.”

I exhaled slowly, looking up at the high ceilings again.

Some inheritances were apologies. Some were ghosts dressed as property.

We talked logistics, furniture, timelines. Problems with solutions. With every measurement, every sketch, my shoulders loosened. Work steadied me—it was rhythm, structure, something I could fix with my own hands.

That evening, Ritu leaned against her car, eyeing the sky like it had personally betrayed her. It was already dark even though it wasn’t that late—clouds swallowing whatever sunlight Ireland had bothered to offer that day.

“You realise you’ve landed during the worst week, right?” she said.

I arched a brow. “Rain?”

“Halloween,” she corrected, grinning. “Most of the workers will be off tomorrow. Which means”—she clapped once— “we’re going out.”

I laughed. “No.”

“Oh, don’t start,” she waved me off. “Bar hopping. Then a club. A friend owns it. Loud, harmless, the kind of night that promised forgetting.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted the handover in a month?”

“There’s always more work to do. Let’s let loose,” she looked at me with puppy eyes. “Please.”

Ritu met me at the cottage the next evening, with coffee and a sinful dress.

“I got you something hot, mommy.”

“Ritu.” I gasped. “Damn woman, what do you think I’m twenty?”

“Age is just a number,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. “Now get out of those shorts and doll up for me, will you. I’ve got us some fake blood too for makeup.”

She winked and swatted my ass as I went to change.