The boy from Clifden finds the first crack in
the stone wall behind his grandmother’s cottage.
It glows faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. He
touches it, and the air shivers.
The village is quiet, but the walls hum. The
priest says it’s a blessing. The landlord says
it’s a curse. The boy knows better. He’s seen
the old men whispering at the pub, their faces
tight with something between fear and hope.
He starts walking the road that no longer exists.
It appears only when the moon is full, winding
through fields that should not be there. The
road leads to a house that was burned down in
’16. The door opens. Inside, a man in a British
uniform stands waiting.
The man speaks in a voice that isn’t his own. He
says the war isn’t over. The boy asks how. The
man shows him a map. It’s the same as the one in
the schoolroom, but the borders have shifted.
The boy’s home is now on the other side.
He runs to the local office, but the clerk has
gone. The walls are different. The name on the
door is unfamiliar. He tries the pub. The
regulars don’t know him. A woman with a scar on
her cheek says he’s not from around here.
He returns to the road. The crack is wider now.
The man in the uniform is gone. In his place
stands a girl, younger than him, with a rifle
slung over her shoulder. She says the war is
real. The boy says it’s over. She laughs.
The road vanishes. The girl follows. They walk
through the fields until they reach the edge of
the village. The sky is wrong—too blue, too
still. The girl points to a hill. There, a flag
flutters. It’s not the tricolour. It’s the red,
white, and green of the Free State. But the boy
knows that flag never flew here.
They reach the hill. The girl stops. She says
the war is a loop. The boy says he doesn’t
believe in ghosts. She says he’s already dead.
The ground splits. The boy falls. When he wakes,
he’s back in his grandmother’s cottage. The
crack is gone. The priest is gone. The landlord
is gone. The village is empty.
He walks the road again. It’s gone. The fields
are gone. The house is gone. All that remains is
the map, folded in his pocket. The borders are
different. His home is now on the other side.
He walks the new road. It leads to a town he’s
never heard of. The people speak a dialect he
understands. They call him by name. They say
he’s been away a long time.
He looks up. The sky is wrong. Too blue. Too
still.
He turns back. The road is gone. The town is
gone. The map is gone.
He sits on the edge of the field. The wind
carries the sound of a distant drum. He doesn’t
know if it’s the past or the future.
He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.
He doesn’t know if he’s alive.
