It smelled different here. Even before I stepped out of the car, I could feel it—wet stone, grass, something old, something alive. Connemara never changes, not really. But after months away, it always feels like it does. Or maybe I’m the one that’s different every time I come back.
The house looked the same. A bit more battered, maybe. A few more streaks of green creeping up the stone, the wind still trying to knock it down after all these years. But it was standing. Which was more than I could say for the garden.
Wild. That’s the only word for it. The hedges had doubled in size, weeds had staged a full-blown coup, and the vegetable patch? A lost cause. Max, my old Labrador, wandered through the mess, tail down, sniffing the air like he was checking to see if this was still home. He was getting slower these days. Wiser, too, maybe.
Inside, the house felt like no one had lived in it for years, not just a few months. That kind of cold that settles deep into the walls, the kind that makes you wonder if warmth will ever find its way back in. I lit the fire, filled the kettle, stared out the window at the chaos I’d left behind. It was easier to pretend it didn’t matter when I wasn’t standing in the middle of it.
The boys were coming tomorrow. All three of them. Sean, serious and steady, pretending he wasn’t worried. Cian, always talking, always planning, like movement could outrun grief. And Eoin, the one who felt things too deeply but never let it show. They’d be here, making noise, filling the house with distraction. I was glad. And exhausted just thinking about it.
I should have unpacked. Or cleaned. Or done something useful. Instead, I pulled on my boots and walked outside, straight into the overgrowth, letting the brambles scratch at my legs. The fuchsia had survived. Of course it had. Stubborn thing. The lavender too, tough and unbothered. The vegetable patch… well. That would have to wait.
And then there was Brian’s tree. The rowan we planted together, the last thing we did before—well. Before. It stood there, still and quiet, waiting for me. I ran a hand over the bark, rough and cold, swallowed hard, and told myself I wouldn’t cry. Not today.
Tomorrow, the boys would come. The house would feel full again, for a while. But tonight, it was just me. The wind. The rain on the horizon. And a garden that kept growing, even when I wasn’t looking.
Spring had come back to Connemara.
And so had I.