The river at Cluainmhór dries overnight, leaving
cracked earth where once there was song. A woman
steps from the bus, boots heavy with dust, and
feels the air shift. The village lies silent, as
if holding its breath.
She had left in ’72, before the Troubles turned
the roads to war zones. Now the fields are gone,
replaced by a hollow that hums when touched. The
old well, where her grandmother once drew water,
is now a mouth—black, pulsing, waiting.
The priest’s son, Eamon, finds her at the edge
of the village. He speaks of a dream: the land
swallowing the dead, offering them back as
something else. She remembers the old stories,
the ones about the fae taking what they wanted
in exchange for peace.
At midnight, she walks to the hollow. The ground
opens, and a figure rises—a man with her eyes,
her voice, her hands. He offers a deal: her
memory of the past, in return for the village’s
survival. She hesitates, then agrees.
The next morning, the river flows again. The
villagers speak of a dream, a shadow, a weight
lifted. But she cannot remember her mother’s
face. The hollow remains, but it no longer sings.
She packs her bag, leaves the village behind.
The road ahead is empty, but the silence is
lighter. The land has taken something, but it
has also given back.
No one asks what she gave. No one dares to look
too close.
