The postman’s bicycle clatters over cobblestones
in Dublin’s northside. A woman opens the door to
find a sealed envelope addressed in her late
father’s hand. The wax seal bears the crest of a
vanished estate. She breaks it open. Inside is a
letter dated April 1922, written by her brother,
who disappeared after the Treaty. He never
returned. The words are sharp, urgent. He speaks
of a secret buried beneath the old mill, a cache
of documents that could shift the war’s outcome.
She reads it twice. The ink has not faded.
She packs a satchel. Leaves the house at dawn.
The streets are quieter than usual. Troops move
in both directions. A British officer stops her.
She shows the letter. He nods. “That name,” he
says. “He was a traitor.” She walks on.
The mill stands empty, its walls cracked by fire.
She finds the trapdoor beneath the floorboards.
A metal box lies inside, rusted but intact.
Inside: files, photographs, a map of hidden arms
caches. One page is torn. She folds it into her
coat.
By midday, she is caught. A Sinn Féin patrol
arrests her. They search her belongings. The
torn page is missing. They question her. She
says nothing. They leave her in a cell. The next
morning, she is released. No explanation. The
box is gone.
She returns home. The letter is gone. The
envelope is empty. She sits by the window. The
city breathes in silence. She writes a new
letter. Addresses it to herself. Sends it
through the post.
The war ends. The country splits. She never
speaks of what she found. But in the quiet of
the attic, she keeps the torn page folded in a
book. The last line reads: “If you read this,
I’m already dead.”
