The radio crackles with static as the woman
steps from her rusted van, boots crunching over
ash. The air reeks of burnt wood and damp stone.
She clutches a clipboard marked "Dún na nGall
Property Listings" in faded ink. The village is
gone, but the land remains—scorched, silent, and
waiting.
She walks past the ruins of the pub, its sign
bent like a spine. A figure lingers at the edge
of the woods, cloaked in shadows. It does not
move when she stops. The wind carries a whisper,
not of wind, but of voices—many, overlapping,
urgent.
The estate agent’s hand trembles. She has seen
this before: the way the dead linger, how they
cling to the living. But this is different. The
bodies here are not buried. They are seen.
A child’s laughter echoes from the graveyard.
The agent turns, but no one is there. The ground
shifts underfoot, as if something beneath it
stirs. She pulls a map from her pocket, marks
the location of the old schoolhouse. It is the
last place she remembers before the collapse.
The sun dips low. A shadow passes over her. She
looks up. The sky is split by a fissure, a
jagged scar of light and smoke. The world has
changed. Not just the buildings, but the rules.
The dead do not rest. They return.
She finds the schoolhouse intact, its walls
still standing. Inside, a single candle flickers
on a desk. The name on the chalkboard is hers—
Maeve O’Connor, Estate Agent—but the date is
1923.
A voice speaks behind her. “You shouldn’t be
here.”
The agent turns. A man stands in the doorway,
his face halfhidden by a scarf. His eyes are
empty, but his mouth moves. “The land remembers.
You are part of it now.”
She backs away, but the door slams shut. The
candle goes out. The walls begin to bleed.
The rule bites: the dead cannot be left alone.
If they are not laid to rest, they return. And
those who forget their own names become them.
Maeve runs. The village shudders. The dead rise
from the earth, their forms flickering like
smoke. She reaches the van, but the keys are
gone. The man from the doorway stands in the
road, watching.
She opens the glovebox. A photo falls out—a
younger version of herself, standing in front of
the same schoolhouse. The date is 1923.
The dead close in. She climbs into the van,
starts the engine. The man steps forward, raises
a hand.
The world shifts. The van lurches. The village
dissolves into mist.
Maeve drives until the road ends. She parks
beside a stream, the water clear and cold. The
map in her hand is blank. The clipboard is empty.
She steps out, breath fogging the air. The sky
is blue. The trees are green.
But the dead are still here.
They wait.
They remember.
And she will too.
