About the book
A Song for the Small Hours
Galway only pretended to sleep. It dimmed itself like a pub turning the lights low, as if that counted as closing. The city’s voice softened, the way a song softened when the singer stepped back from the mic—still there, still threaded through the air, just less demanding. Streetlamps burned gold against wet stone. Rain hung in the atmosphere like a rumour. The river kept talking, constant and unsentimental, as if it had never heard of grief.