The rain had not stopped since she stepped off the bus. Not a sharp, cleansing rain, but the slow, wet kind that sinks into the seams of your coat and lingers like an unwelcome thought. Maeve stood on the gravel verge, her suitcase at her feet, watching the taillights smear red along the slick road until they disappeared beyond the bend. All that was left was the wind coming in off the sea and the sound of water rushing from the gutters along the old stone wall.
“You’re soaked.”
“I walked.”
“You passed O’Shea’s. Could’ve rung for a lift.”
“Would you have come?”
His jaw shifted, the question landing too close to something neither of them wanted to touch yet. He stepped aside. She dragged the suitcase over the threshold, the wheels squealing against the flagstone floor.
“You’re in your old room,” Cormac said without turning. “Sheets are clean.”
“You’ll have seen him,” he said, voice flat.
“Who?”
“Aidan.”
The name lodged in her throat before she could answer. She reached for the mug, wrapping her hands around it as though the heat could hide the tremor in her fingers.
“I didn’t.”
“He was at the funeral. Stood back near the wall. Left before the prayers.”
Maeve looked down at the dark surface of the tea, the way it quivered when her hands did. “And you spoke to him?”
“No.” A pause. “But I will.”
“Why’d you come back, Maeve?”
“It was time,” she said instead.
He nodded once, the muscle in his jaw tightening again. “Aye. Maybe it was.”
“You can put your things in the back room,” he said finally.
Maeve’s mouth tightened. “That’s where you put me?”
“It’s dry,” he replied, and the way he said it made it clear dryness was the only kindness he was prepared to give.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, because silence was worse.
Cormac’s shoulders rose. Fell. “Someone had to.”
Maeve opened her suitcase and pulled out a jumper, holding it like she didn’t know where it belonged. “How is he?”
Cormac’s jaw flexed. “He’s dead, Maeve.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He turned away, then back again, like he couldn’t decide which direction hurt less. “He’s in the front room. Funeral home collected him this afternoon. Father Daly’s coming in the morning to go over the readings.”
Maeve’s stomach tightened. “He got Father Daly, did he?”
Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”
Maeve laughed once, bitter. “I’m not starting. I’m remembering. That man wouldn’t give Mam the time of day when she was alive.”
Cormac’s voice went hard. “Mam’s dead too.”
Maeve went still. The words landed heavier than they should have, because she hadn’t said her mother’s name yet. She’d been holding it like you hold a mug too hot to touch.
Cormac glanced toward the hall, toward the locked door. “You saw it.”
Maeve’s throat tightened. “It’s still there.”
“Aye,” Cormac said, and the sound of it was like a nail. “And it’s still locked.”
Maeve swallowed. “What’s in it now?”
Cormac’s mouth pulled. “The same as always.”
Maeve shook her head slowly. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’ll get tonight.”
Maeve set the jumper down. Her fingers curled. “You can’t keep doing that. You can’t keep deciding I don’t get to know things.”
Cormac’s eyes flashed. “And you can’t keep breezing in like you’ve rights here after twenty years.”
Maeve’s breath hitched. “I didn’t breeze.”
“You left,” Cormac snapped. “You left us to carry it. You left me to—” His voice broke, just a fraction, and he swallowed it down like poison. “You left.”
Maeve’s eyes burned. “I was seventeen. I didn’t leave because I wanted to. I left because staying was killing me.”
Cormac’s laugh was ugly. “And you think it wasn’t killing me? You think I wasn’t standing at that door every night, waiting for Mam to come out of that room and be normal again?”
Maeve’s throat tightened. “Did she—”
Cormac cut her off. “Don’t.”
Maeve’s jaw clenched. “Cormac, I came back for a funeral. That’s all I’m asking you to let me do without biting my head off.”
Cormac stared at her, breathing hard. Then he turned away sharply, as if he’d looked too long and seen something he didn’t want.
“There’s tea,” he said, voice flat. “Kitchen.”
Maeve sat. Her hands shook. She tucked them under the table to hide it.
Cormac set two mugs down with a thud. The tea was too strong, the kind you made when you were trying to give your body something to do other than fall apart.
Cormac watched her over the rim of his mug. “You still take it the same.”
Maeve blinked. “Do I?”
“Aye,” he said, and the softness in it surprised her. It lasted half a breath before he hardened again. “So. Tell me. Are you staying long?”
Maeve stared at the tea. “I don’t know.”
Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “You came for the funeral. That’s one day.”
Maeve’s voice went quiet. “I came because you rang and said it was time.”
Cormac’s jaw flexed. “It is.”
Maeve looked up. “Time for what?”
Cormac hesitated. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind shoved rain against the window like it wanted in.
Finally, Cormac said, “Time for you to see what you left behind.”
Maeve’s stomach tightened. “I didn’t leave him behind.”
Cormac’s laugh was sharp. “You left me with him. With his moods. With his silences. With the way he’d sit at this table and stare at the locked door like it was a god he couldn’t believe in anymore.”
Maeve swallowed. “I didn’t know.”
“Aye, you did,” Cormac said. “You just didn’t want to.”
Maeve flinched. “That’s not fair.”
“Neither was it fair to leave me to bury Mam alone,” he shot back.
Maeve’s chest burned. “Mam wasn’t buried alone.”
Cormac’s eyes went hard. “Not physically. But she was alone in every room she walked into. And I watched it. I watched her get smaller. I watched Dad pretend not to see. And you—”
Maeve’s voice cracked. “I was a child.”
“So was I,” Cormac said, and the simplicity of it cut. “But I stayed.”
Maeve stared at him, the familiar shape of his face suddenly foreign with grief. “Why did you ring me now?” she asked, and it came out like a plea.
Cormac’s hand tightened on his mug. “Because he asked.”
Maeve’s breath hitched. “He asked?”
Cormac nodded once. “He couldn’t say your name. Not out loud. But he asked. He said, ‘Bring her home.’ Like you were… like you were a thing he’d misplaced.”
Maeve’s throat closed. “And you did it.”
Cormac’s mouth twisted. “Aye. Because I’m tired, Maeve. I’m tired of carrying this family like it’s a sack of stones.”
Maeve stared into her tea, seeing the dark surface, the reflection of her own eyes. “Was he sorry?”
Cormac’s laugh was humourless. “For what?”
“For…” Maeve’s voice faltered. “For the way things were. For Mam. For—”
Cormac cut in, cold. “He was sorry he’d have no one left to mind the place.”
Maeve’s anger flared. “That’s cruel.”
“It’s true,” Cormac said. “Truth is cruel. You forgot.”
Maeve’s fingers tightened on the mug. “I didn’t forget. I learned to live without it.”
Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “Did you?”
She exhaled. “Where is he?”
Cormac’s gaze flicked toward the front room. “In there. In his box. Waiting to be carried into the church like he was a decent man.”
Maeve’s mouth went dry. “Can I see him?”
Cormac’s eyes held hers. “Why? To make peace?”
Maeve swallowed. “To say goodbye.”
Cormac stared for a long beat. Then he nodded, once, and stood.
Maeve stopped a few steps away. Her legs felt heavy. Cormac didn’t go closer; he hovered by the doorway, arms folded, bracing himself for whatever she’d do.
Maeve stepped forward slowly. The coffin looked too big for the man she remembered—too formal, too final.
She didn’t touch it. She just stood there, staring at the polished wood, and waited for something to happen inside her.
Nothing did.
No flood of grief. No forgiveness. Just a quiet, sick ache, as if her body was remembering an old injury.
Cormac’s voice came low behind her. “He’s not going to apologise from there.”
Maeve’s laugh came out cracked. “I didn’t expect him to.”
Cormac shifted. “You’ve a lot of nerve coming back and acting like—”
Maeve turned sharply. “Like what? Like I’m allowed to be hurt? Like I’m allowed to stand in the same room as my father’s coffin?”
Cormac’s eyes flashed. “He was my father too.”
“Aye,” Maeve said, and the word was bitter. “And you got him. All of him. I got the absence.”
Cormac’s jaw clenched. “You got freedom.”
Maeve’s eyes burned. “I got exile.”
Silence stretched again. The rain kept tapping at the windows. The house held its breath around them, old and tired, as if it had heard every version of this argument and was bored of it.
Cormac finally said, quieter, “There are things you don’t know.”
Maeve went still. “About Mam.”
Cormac’s eyes flicked toward the locked door, then away. “Aye.”
Maeve’s throat tightened. “Tell me.”
Cormac shook his head once. “Not tonight.”
Maeve’s laugh was sharp. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You love being the one who knows.”
Cormac’s face hardened. “I love keeping you safe.”
Maeve stared at him, anger and something softer tangled together. “From what?”
Cormac didn’t answer.
Maeve’s mouth went dry. “Cormac.”
He swallowed. “There are men in this town who remember you. Not kindly.”
Maeve’s spine went cold. “Because I left.”
Cormac’s voice dropped. “Because you were Nora Fallon’s daughter. Because you were… inconvenient.”
Maeve’s hands shook. “That’s ridiculous.”
Cormac’s eyes were bleak. “Is it?”
Maeve stared past him, toward the hall, toward the locked door. The key still hung on its nail like a small gold promise.
She felt something in her chest shift—subtle but real. The sense that coming back wasn’t just a funeral. It was a trap that had been waiting, patient as fog.
“Who?” she asked, voice thin.
Cormac hesitated. Then he said it, and the name dropped into the room like a stone into water.
“Aidan Byrne.”
Maeve’s breath left her. For a second, the air seemed to thin, as if the house itself had flinched.
Cormac watched her carefully. “He’s back.”
Maeve’s voice came out hoarse. “He never left.”
Cormac’s jaw clenched. “He was away a while. Work. Dublin. England. Whatever. But he’s back now.”
Maeve swallowed, the name burning. “Does he know I’m here?”
Cormac’s mouth tightened. “Not yet.”
Maeve’s heart hammered. “You’ll tell him.”
Cormac’s gaze sharpened. “Why? Afraid?”
Maeve stared at the coffin again, then at the locked door, then back at her brother. “I’m not afraid,” she lied.
Cormac’s eyes didn’t soften. “Good. Because tomorrow you’ll see him in the church. And if you’re going to stand in this family’s pew like you belong here, you’ll do it with your head up.”
Maeve’s throat tightened. “And if I don’t?”
Cormac’s voice went hard. “Then you shouldn’t have come home.”
Back in the kitchen, Cormac moved like a man making decisions without saying them. He filled the kettle again even though the tea wasn’t finished, as if boiling water could reset the room.
Maeve watched him. “You’re scared.”
Cormac’s laugh was thin. “Of what? Aidan Byrne?”
Maeve’s voice went quiet. “Of what you’ve kept from me.”
Cormac’s jaw flexed. He stared at the kettle until it clicked. “You want the truth? Here’s the truth. Dad didn’t die clean.”
Maeve went still. “What do you mean?”
Cormac swallowed. “He died the way he lived—stubborn. Angry. Not wanting anyone’s help.”
Maeve’s stomach tightened. “Was he ill?”
Cormac’s gaze flicked away. “He was… failing.”
Maeve frowned. “You didn’t say.”
Cormac’s mouth twisted. “Because it wasn’t your business until he decided it was.”
Maeve’s chest burned. “You keep saying that like I’m a visitor.”
Cormac’s voice went flat. “You are.”
Maeve’s anger flared, but beneath it was a smaller, sharper hurt. “Then why did he ask for me?”
Cormac hesitated. “Because he was afraid.”
Maeve’s throat tightened. “Of what?”
Cormac’s eyes met hers, bleak. “Of men coming to the door.”
Maeve’s skin prickled. “Declan.”
Cormac nodded once. “Declan came last month. Sat at this table like he owned it. Smiled. Asked about you.”
Maeve felt cold creep up her spine. “He asked about me.”
Cormac’s jaw clenched. “Aye. Like you were an asset he’d mislaid. Dad pretended he didn’t know where you were. Declan laughed and said, ‘We’ll find her.’”
Maeve’s hands shook. “Why now?”
Cormac’s voice went low. “Because Kearney’s sick.”
Maeve blinked. “Kearney?”
Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “Aye. That’s the whisper. The priest who thinks he’s God. They say he’s not long for this world.”
Maeve’s stomach turned. “And that makes me—”
Cormac’s mouth twisted. “Loose ends. Accounts to settle. Interest to collect before he dies and takes names with him.”
Maeve swallowed bile. “So Dad called me home to protect me.”
Cormac’s laugh was bitter. “Dad called you home because he didn’t want to die with your name on his conscience.”
Maeve’s throat closed. “That’s not protection.”
Cormac’s eyes held hers. “No. It’s selfishness. But it’s also truth.”
Maeve stared at the kettle, at the steam curling, at the old domestic ritual that had always been a cover for panic in this house.
She exhaled slowly. “So what do we do.”
Cormac’s jaw flexed. “We bury him. We keep you out of sight. We wait until you can leave.”
Maeve laughed, sharp. “And you think they’ll let me?”
Cormac didn’t answer. The silence was his fear.
Maeve stood, chair scraping. “I’m not hiding.”
Cormac’s voice went hard. “You think bravery will save you?”
Maeve turned, eyes burning. “No. I think truth might.”
Cormac’s shoulders sagged, just slightly. He looked suddenly older. “Truth gets people killed here.”
Maeve’s voice went quiet. “Then maybe it’s time it killed the right ones.”
Maeve sat back down slowly, palm still on her stomach like she could steady herself from the inside out.
Cormac watched her, quieter now. “You’re not staying long,” he said, but his voice didn’t believe it.
Maeve smiled without humour. “This place has a way of keeping you.”
Cormac swallowed. “Then we make it let you go.”
Maeve’s eyes flicked to the locked door again, to the weight of the house. “I don’t know if it knows how.”
Cormac’s mouth twisted. “We’ll teach it.”
Cormac poured the tea, hands steadier now. “We bury Dad,” he said. “Then we deal with the rest.”
Maeve nodded, eyes hard. “Aye. One funeral at a time.”
Maeve tucked the ring deeper into her pocket and felt its edge bite. A reminder. A vow. She looked at Cormac and nodded once.
“Right,” she said. “We start.”
Cormac’s gaze held hers, fierce and steady. For the first time since she’d come home, Maeve believed he might actually stand beside her.
Outside, the rain eased, but Maeve knew better than to trust quiet. Quiet in Ballyglass was never peace. It was the village holding its breath.
Maeve lifted her chin. “No more easy stories,” she said. “Not for me. Not for her.”
Cormac nodded, swallowing hard. The kettle clicked again—still boiling, still insisting on ordinary life.
Maeve heard herself say it and believed it: she wasn’t coming back to beg. She was coming back to take.
Cormac exhaled slowly. “All right,” he said. “We do it your way.”
Maeve’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Good,” she said. “Because I’m done being nice.”
Not this time.
Maeve swallowed the heat in her throat and stared at the kettle until it stopped screaming. Even the smallest silences felt like choices now.