They swam at the Forty Foot at dawn, the water shockingly cold despite the season. She screamed when she dove in. He laughed—a full, unguarded sound. Treading water, facing the open Irish Sea, she felt the last shards of the knot dissolve. She was not healed. She was just… here. And for one long, golden evening that lasted weeks, that was enough.
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The winter had lasted three years, or so it felt to Aisling. Not the calendar winter, but the one she carried inside—a dense, frozen knot that had taken root the day she buried her mother under a sky the colour of wet slate. They swam at the Forty Foot at dawn,
She sat on a bench near the fountain, which was turned off for the season. A girl, maybe seven years old, ran past with her father, chasing a football. The girl fell. She didn’t cry. She got up, brushed her knees, and kicked the ball again. Treading water, facing the open Irish Sea, she