Chapter 17 Bringing Him Home #5
The first time Danny brought me back to Kerry after Kathy died—how he drove without saying a word until we crested the hill and saw the whole valley laid out below us. “Home,” he’d said, as if the word was enough to heal something. And it was.
I feel:
Like I’m on the edge of something I can’t name. Not yet. The land looks at me with eyes I’ve known my whole life, and I want to believe it still claims me. I want to believe I can claim it back.
Day Fourteen – Castleisland → Farranfore
Distance: 10 mi
Route Notes:
I leave Castleisland on quiet back roads, avoiding the main N22. The route threads through small farms, passing low hills and hedgerows. Occasional glimpses of the Slieve Mish mountains to the north and the MacGillycuddy’s Reeks far ahead to the west hint at Killarney’s approach.
Location Reflection – Halfway to Farranfore:
Stopped at a bend where the hedgerows broke open to a field sloping toward the mountains.
The light was different here—clearer somehow, like the air had been washed.
A lone horse stood by the fence, watching me the way animals sometimes do, as if they see more than the surface.
For a moment, I felt like I was being measured… and––for once––not found wanting.
Journal:
This stretch feels quieter, like the road itself is catching its breath before the end.
I passed a handful of cottages, each with smoke curling from the chimney, and caught the smell of turf fires.
Somewhere behind me, Kerry is unfolding mile by mile.
Somewhere ahead, Killarney waits. I’ve been picturing Josh at Ross Castle, not in some grand reunion, but just…
there. Watching me come in. I don’t know what I’d say to him. I’m not sure the words exist yet.
I see:
The mountains in the distance, sharp against the sky, marking the edge of the world I’ve known.
I remember:
The first time I took Josh to Kerry—the way his eyes widened when the lakes came into view, how he just stood there, silent, like the land itself had told him a secret. Maybe it had. I hope he remembers.
I feel:
Like I’m carrying two weights at once—the one I’ve borne since Galway, and another I can’t quite name that’s only appeared now, so close to the end. Maybe it’s the fear that the man Josh is waiting for won’t be the one who arrives.
Day Fifteen – Farranfore → Killarney
Distance: 6 mi
Route Notes:
A gentle approach through tree-lined lanes and open pasture. The road skirts the edge of Killarney National Park, where the first glimpse of the lakes flashes through the trees. From there, the path winds toward Ross Castle, its grey stone rising from the water’s edge.
Location Reflection – First sight of the lakes:
The water appeared between the branches like something half-remembered from a dream.
Still, bright, and impossibly wide, with the mountains folded behind it in shades of blue and green.
I stopped without meaning to, just stood there and let the quiet of it settle in.
The wind off the lake was cool on my face, carrying the scent of pine and something older, wilder.
It felt like the land was saying, ‘I know you. I’ve been waiting. Welcome home’.
Journal:
These last miles moved differently—not faster, not slower, but with a kind of inevitability.
The road narrowed, the trees closed in, and the air seemed to shift.
When Ross Castle finally came into view, I felt my chest seize with joy.
This place has always pulled at something deep in me, a thread I can’t name but can’t ignore.
I’ve carried that pull through fire, loss, and all the miles between.
Now I’m here again, carrying something heavier and something lighter at the same time.
I see:
Ross Castle stands at the lake’s edge, its reflection trembling as if the past and present strain toward each other.
The sight settles in my chest—fierce, familiar.
My ancestral soul reaches for it before I can move, as though it has been calling to me through every mile—pulling me toward itself across countless generations.
I remember:
Standing here once before, knowing I was looking at more than stone walls and battlements. Feeling the way this place speaks in a language I don’t have to translate. A language older than me, but somehow mine.
I feel:
Like I’ve walked out of one life and into another. The man who left Galway is still in me, but so is someone new—someone who knows that love isn’t about deserving or earning; it’s about showing up. And I’m here—for him, for us––but also, for me.
Day Sixteen – Killarney National Park / Ross Castle
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 still in 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—not as a ghost, not as guilt, but as courage.
I reach into 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 closed my 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 me his.
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 was quiet 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.
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 the Penal Times, 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 laid both 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 saved him. 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. Layered over 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.
A good-bye. A vow. A prayer.
Then he turned toward the path that would take him home.
Joshua stood at the kitchen counter, sorting the mail without thinking.
A flyer. A bill.
A postcard.
He froze. His breath caught in his chest.
His fingers tightened around the edges—familiar now. The weight. The smoothness. The hush of it.
The photo showed the lake at Ross Castle, mist curling low over the water. He knew that angle. They’d stood there once, arms around each other, Colin whispering something that made him laugh so hard he nearly dropped his phone in the water.
He turned the card over.
And this time, there were words.
I love you. I’m coming home.
—C
Joshua’s knees gave out.
He slid to the floor, back against the cabinet, the postcard cradled in his hands like something holy.
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Just read the words again and again—until they blurred.
A sound escaped his throat—half sob, half laugh.
David stepped in from the hallway, startled. “Josh?”
Joshua looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“He’s coming home.”
David’s face softened. “Yeah?”
Joshua lifted the card with both hands—reverent.
“Look, David. Look. He wrote on it, David. He wrote on it.”
David crouched beside him, reading the message. He nodded, slow and sure.
“Told you. That man always finds his way back to you and hopefully to himself.”
Joshua let his head fall back, the card pressed to his heart.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, he breathed—deep, shuddering, free.
“He’s coming home to me.”