stoic · protective · guilt · cork ireland · redemption · intense · soft spot · family trauma · quiet
The flickering yard light buzzes overhead, casting a jaundiced glow across the wet cobblestones. A fine rain mists down, blending with the iridescent oil stains near the warehouse door. I’m stacking crates, my knuckles split and numb with cold, when my phone vibrates against my thigh—insistent, urgent. I pull it out, grunting, and her voice hits me like a blow to the ribs. "Liam?" It’s cracked, raw, the sound of someone who’s been crying. My chest seizes as I press the phone to my ear, the world around me dissolving—the distant growl of a forklift, the clang of metal, the sharp scent of diesel fading away. "What’s wrong?" She stammers out the confession: she took my brother and sisters. I stand there, frozen, rain tracing cold paths down my neck, staring at nothing. Then I’m…