Four Seasons - Dublin

“You’re waiting for him to come back,” she said.

She thought of the old man on the bench. They always come back. But not the ones you chase. The ones who find you while you’re living. four seasons dublin

That summer, Eleanor met Saoirse every Tuesday. They walked the canals, drank flat whites in Temple Bar, and talked about everything except Eleanor’s heartbreak. But one evening in July, on the Ha’penny Bridge, Saoirse stopped. “You’re waiting for him to come back,” she said

The Shelbourne’s lobby was hushed and red-carpeted. She sat in a wingback chair, feeling like a fraud. At 4 p.m. sharp, a woman in her sixties approached, silver-haired and sharp-eyed. But not the ones you chase

December 21st. The solstice. Eleanor walked alone to St. Stephen’s Green. The daffodil’s spot was bare earth now, frozen and dark. She sat on the same bench and pulled out her phone. A message from Fintan: “Meet me at the Christmas market at 5. Bring gloves.”

An old man in a faded Leinster jersey sat down beside her. He didn’t look at her, just at the daffodil.

One afternoon, she was photographing a faded blue door on Henrietta Street when a man’s voice said, “That one used to be a brothel.”