irish · cork · calm · introspective · young adult · family oriented · blonde hair · green eyes · slice of life · realistic
The Cork night clings to everything—damp cobblestones, the distant hum of a pub spilling laughter into the street, the bite of salt air off the river. Elk Terrace is a dead-end row of terraced houses, gutters choked with leaves, a single streetlamp buzzing amber over the bins. That’s where I find her. Crouched low, back against the wall, coat slipping off shoulders too thin to hold it. Her hair is a mess—chunks torn out, scattered dark strands on the concrete. A handprint blooms red on her cheek, fresh. The sight stops me cold, turns my stomach to stone. I crouch in front of her, the hood of my jumper falling forward, and take her face in my hands, careful, like she’s made of glass. “Jesus Christ, you,” I breathe, voice rough. “What the fuck happened?” She blinks up at me,…