Chapter 24
The articles I found were enough to crack something open in me. So, I clocked off work early. I had to. I couldn’t dig any deeper, if I stayed, I would have. Memories I’d buried came rushing back as if they were floodwater through a broken dam.
With this weight pressing down on my chest and with still no sign of Croía at her house, I take a detour to the one spot that always quiets my mind. The graveyard.
As I walk the worn path to my parents’ headstone, the gravel crunches beneath my boots. The sky goes grey, the kind that dulls and hangs heavy before a storm.
With a heavy heart, I kneel between the moss-covered markers and rest my hand on the cold stone.
When everything feels as if it’s spiralling, I come here and talk things through.
I tell myself they’re listening, even though I don’t actually say anything.
What could I even say? With the way I’ve been acting lately, digging into the past, chasing ghosts, dragging myself into places I shouldn't. I don’t know if I have the right words for them. For this.
Would they be disappointed in me? God, I really hope not.
As I kneel between the headstones, my fingers curl into the damp earth as though I might find the answers I need buried.
The silence stretches long and unforgiving.
All the things I want to say press against my chest, but none of it makes it out.
It’s just the steady rhythm of my breathing along with the distant call of crows overhead.
I stare at my parents’ headstone and look at their names, the dates. The finality of it all.
“I’m trying,” I whisper at last, the words scraping against my throat. “Even when it doesn’t look like it… I swear I am.”
Before giving the headstone one last glance, I rise up. There’s too much left unsaid. Maybe that’s okay though. Maybe they already know, and that’s why I feel just a little less alone when I walk away.
Unable to resist, I walk up by the daffodil field on my way out.
Even after all these years, it still hits me how peaceful it is here.
The daffodils sway gently in the wind, their bright yellow heads bobbing as if they’re whispering to one another.
It’s beautiful, the kind of beauty that aches a little when you look at it for too long.
I’ve always loved this place, maybe because it’s one of the few that doesn’t feel haunted.
At least, not until now… because that’s when I see her. Croía.
She’s standing at the edge of the field, still and soft as if she’s a part of it. As though the wind moves through her. Her silver hair catches the light as it dances in the breeze. My breath stutters in my throat. I don’t move. I don’t even blink.
Is it really her? Or is this some cruel trick of the light?
Then she turns, slowly, as if she knew I was here, and our eyes meet.
She doesn’t look like her normal self. There’s no light in her eyes, no spark in her stance.
She looks beat down, as if she’s been dragged through hell and clawed her way back on bleeding hands.
Her clothes hang loose on her frame, dirt-smudged and torn in places, and her skin is pale beneath the soft gold light of the daffodil field.
Cautious, I step toward her, my heart thudding with a mix of fear and urgency.
The closer I get, the more the cracks show.
Her shoulders slump under some unseen weight and her lips are chapped.
She sways on her feet, barely able to stand upright.
By the time I reach her, it’s clear. She’s running on fumes, held together by sheer will alone.
Without hesitation, I sweep her up into my arms just as her knees begin to buckle.
She’s weightless and trembling. I brace her against my chest as if I can hold her together with just my grip.
I expect resistance. Some smart remark, a weak shove, none comes.
Instead, she melts into me, her head nestling into the hollow of my shoulder as though it’s where she’s meant to be.
Her eyes flutter shut slowly, her lashes damp, and for a split second I wonder if she has fallen asleep and given in to the exhaustion that’s been haunting her.
Either way, she doesn’t fight me and that terrifies me more than if she had.
Slow and measured, I begin the walk toward her house.
Keeping each step steady, as though she might shatter if I jostle her even slightly.
She feels too light in my arms, too still, and it’s eating away at my chest. When we reach the front door, I ease her down gently.
Just enough to pick the lock, quick and quiet.
Then lift her back up and carry her inside.
The house is dark and silent, as I head straight for her bedroom, pushing the door open with my shoulder. The moment I lay her down on the bed, she lets out the faintest sigh that’s barely audible. I want to, but I don’t linger. I need to take care of her first.
In the bathroom, I grab a basin and fill it with warm water, the sound of the running tap cuts through the thick silence.
My eyes scan the shelves until I find a washcloth tucked behind some folded towels.
Once it’s in my hands, I dunk it into the basin and wring it out, the water trickling between my fingers as my hands tremble from fury and helplessness.
As soon as I’m back in the room, I kneel beside the bed and begin gently wiping the dirt from her face and her arms, trying to return some sense of calm to her battered appearance.
She stirs slightly when I reach her legs, so I move with even more care.
Carefully I peel off her muddy bottoms and gently clean her up.
Every movement is deliberate and respectful.
She doesn’t wake, and eventually her breathing evens out a little.
As if, somewhere in that deep haze, she knows she’s safe now.
For a moment, I sit back on my heels and watch her. I’m still trying to calm the storm raging in my chest. Whatever happened to her, I sense it’s not over. Aréir, ar a laghad, tá sí sa bhaile. (For tonight, at least, she’s home.)