The summer of ’87 baked the tarmac in
Ballycumber. A flyover loomed over the village
green, halfbuilt and abandoned like the dreams
it was meant to serve. The estate agent arrived
in a borrowed Peugeot, his clipboard marked
‘Ballycumber House – Probate Clearance’. The
house stood at the edge of the bog, stone walls
lichenstained, roof sagging. No one had lived
there since ’23.
Inside, the air tasted of damp linen and mildew.
He found the first letter tucked behind a loose
floorboard near the hearth—a brittle sheet
addressed to “M. O’Riordan, Loughrea”, dated
1916. It spoke of a rendezvous planned for
Easter Sunday, a coded message about arms buried
beneath the old chapel steps. The penmanship was
precise, urgent. He slipped it into his coat
pocket.
By dusk, he’d unearthed five more letters. All
from 1916–1920. One mentioned a child left
behind in a farmhouse near the river. Another
warned of informers in the local GAA club. Each
bore a different handwriting, yet all signed
with a single initial: M.
That night, a boy appeared at the gate—fifteen,
barefoot, eyes sharp as flint. He claimed he’d
come from the post office to collect mail. The
agent hesitated. The boy knew the house’s layout.
Knew where the cellar stairs were. When asked,
he said only: “They told me you’d be here.”
Next morning, a woman arrived on a bicycle. Her
skirt was too long for the season, her hair
pinned tight. She carried a satchel full of old
photographs. She didn’t speak. She walked
straight to the attic, opened a trunk beneath
the eaves, and pulled out a faded school uniform.
On the inside label: C. O’Dwyer, St. Brigid’s
National, 1914.
The estate agent did not ask questions. He
simply placed the original letters beside the
uniform. The woman’s hand trembled when she
touched them. Then she nodded—not to him, but to
the air.
At the village pub later, the landlord refused
to serve them. Not because they were strangers,
but because they were here. The barman wiped the
counter with a rag so clean it looked new.
Outside, the sky turned purple.
The next day, the roads were sealed. A military
patrol passed through, boots thudding on the
asphalt. They weren’t checking IDs. They were
counting windows. Counting shadows.
The agent returned to the house. Found a sixth
letter, folded in a biscuit tin beneath the
kitchen sink. This one was written in 1921. It
said: “We are no longer safe in our own names.
But we are still family. If you read this, we
have already gone. Keep the keys.”
He took the keys. There were four. One fit the
chapel door. One unlocked a shed behind the
stable. One opened a false wall in the study.
The last—he never used it.
On the final evening, the boy and the woman
stood at opposite ends of the garden. The agent
lit a cigarette. The wind carried ash across the
fields.
No one spoke. The house creaked. The silence
wasn’t empty. It was full.
And when dawn broke, the estate agent left the
keys on the doorstep. The house remained. The
road stayed closed. The boy vanished. The woman
returned to the city.
But every autumn since, someone leaves a new
letter in the same spot—under the porch step.
Unsent. Unclaimed. Waiting.
