The city is a hollowedout shell. The last train
to Belfast rusts in the station yard. No one
remembers when the power died, only that the
lights never came back. The streets are littered
with broken glass and old passports. The air
smells of ash and salt.
She finds the crate under the floorboards of her
late father’s flat. Inside, a stack of identity
papers, all bearing her name. A map drawn in
charcoal, marking routes through the abandoned
docks. A single bullet. She pockets the papers,
leaves the bullet behind.
The first rule bites when she tries to cross the
river. A checkpoint manned by men in mismatched
uniforms. They demand proof of residency. She
shows a paper. They tear it up. The second rule:
no one leaves Dublin without a debt paid in
flesh. She offers her hand. They take her thumb
instead.
She follows the map to the old wharf. A group of
women gather, trading stories in hushed tones.
One speaks of a boat that still floats, hidden
beneath the ruins. The women call her "the girl
who walked back." They don’t ask where she’s
going. They know.
The betrayal comes at the dock. A man she once
called brother steps from the shadows. He holds
a revolver. He says the boat is gone. He says
she’s not welcome. She fires first. His body
falls into the water. The revolver clatters on
the stones.
The final rule is written in the sky. A storm
rolls in, bringing with it the scent of rain and
something else—something old. The women return,
carrying torches. They light the papers in her
hands. The flames curl upward, revealing a path
through the smoke. She walks it.
The boat is there. A rusted hull, but seaworthy.
She climbs aboard. The engine sputters, then
roars to life. The city fades behind her. The
wind carries the sound of distant voices—
emigrants, lost and waiting. She doesn’t look
back.
