He wakes in a derelict flat above a shuttered
pub on Arran Street. No ID, no phone, no name.
The walls are scrawled with symbols he doesn’t
recognise. A single window overlooks the river,
where a boat drifts without oars.
The city is quieter than he expects. No traffic,
no voices. People move in tight clusters, eyes
down. He finds a wallet with a passport under
his pillow—his name is Seán O’Connor, born 1985.
But the address on the document is a ruin in
Clontarf.
He walks the streets, noting the absence of
modern signs. Phones are rare. Posters for a GAA
match in Croke Park are dated 1922. A priest in
a cassock stops him, mutters something about
“the old order.” Seán says nothing.
At a newsstand, he reads a headline: “IRA
Disarmed, Treaty Signed.” He freezes. The war is
over. But the city still bears the scars. A man
in a suit offers him a job at a legal firm. The
name on the door is familiar. He walks in.
The office is empty except for a woman behind a
desk. She says, “You’re late.” She hands him a
file marked O’Connor. Inside are documents about
land disputes, a map of Dublin’s oldest
districts, and a photo of a boy with his face.
The boy is buried in a graveyard near Glasnevin.
He leaves the office, takes the tram to the
cemetery. The grave is fresh. A note under the
stone reads: “You were never meant to remember.”
He turns, sees a figure watching from the
shadows. The figure disappears into the fog.
That night, he returns to the flat. The symbols
on the wall have changed. A new one appears—a
spiral with a jagged edge. He touches it. The
room shudders. The walls shift, revealing a
hidden corridor.
He follows it to a basement. A table holds a
ledger, a revolver, and a map of Dublin with red
lines marking routes he doesn’t recall. A voice
behind him says, “You’re not supposed to be here.
”
He turns. The man is older, with the same face.
“You’re my father,” Seán says. The man nods.
“But you weren’t born in this time. You were
sent back to fix what was broken.”
The ledger opens to a page with his name. A list
of people who died in 1923. His name is crossed
out. The man says, “You’re not real. You’re a
ghost in the system.”
Seán reaches for the revolver. The man smiles.
“You can’t kill what isn’t there.” The room
dissolves.
He wakes in the same flat, but the walls are
clean. No symbols. No map. The phone rings. He
answers. A voice says, “You’re free now.”
He looks out the window. The river is still. The
city is quiet. He steps onto the street. No one
recognises him. He walks until the sun rises.
