The studio above the pub is cold. Paints dry too
fast. The artist, Eileen, refuses to touch the
brush. She’s been warned: the walls bleed when
she works. The war has left the city hollow. The
British are gone, but their ghosts remain in the
stone.
Eileen’s father was a priest. He vanished in
1916. The church says he died in the Rising. The
locals whisper he joined the rebels. She’s never
believed either. But now, the shadows in her
paintings move. They show scenes no one else
sees: a man in a cassock, a gun, a body in the
river.
She begins to paint what she sees. The pub owner,
Seamus, watches. He’s seen her work before. He
knows the family name. He tells her to stop. The
past is buried. But the paintings don’t let her
rest.
One night, she finds a letter in the floorboards.
It’s from her father. He wrote it after the
Rising. He was part of a secret group, not
rebels, but men who believed the church had
betrayed the people. He hid something in the
city. Something that could destroy the new
government.
Eileen follows the clues. She visits the old
chapel where her father served. The walls are
covered in symbols. She touches them. A voice
speaks. Not her own. It says, “You were meant to
find this.”
She returns to the studio. The painting she’s
working on changes as she watches. It shows her
father standing before a crowd, holding a
document. The crowd is made of faces she
recognises: politicians, priests, even the pub
owner. The document is a list. Names. Crimes.
She realises what it is. A ledger of sins. Not
just of the church, but of the state. Her father
tried to expose it. He was silenced. Now, the
same forces are watching her.
Seamus comes to the studio. He’s not angry. He’s
sad. He tells her the truth: her father was a
patriot, but also a sinner. The ledger was meant
to be destroyed. But Eileen has seen it. She
can’t unsee it.
She burns the painting. The fire doesn’t take.
The shadows stay. She leaves the studio. The
city feels different. The people look at her
differently. She walks through the streets, past
the old rebel graves, past the new government
offices. She doesn’t know what to do.
But she paints again. This time, the shadows
don’t move. The painting is empty. She leaves it
behind. The city moves on. The past lingers, but
not in the way she expected.
The war is over. The church is still strong. The
art world is quiet. But Eileen’s name is spoken
in hushed tones. Some say she saw the truth.
Others say she’s mad. She doesn’t care. She
paints what she must. The shadows no longer
speak. But the silence is louder than words.
