About the book
Graydon and Lyoness
She lets the kettle sing because if she cuts the song short, the day will feel unfinished. Steam rounds the kitchen window; she rubs a small circle clear with her knuckles and sees the Liffey in its expensive grey. Seven months along, nineteen years old, and somehow both. Orla answers her palm with a deliberate push—hello, I’m here—then settles like tide easing against a harbour wall.