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.
Aoife Byrne moved through those hours the way other people moved through daylight—competent, careful, built for it. Night shifts did that to you. They rewired your sense of normal. They taught you how to find steady ground when everyone else was asleep, how to walk a corridor full of pain without letting it crawl into your bones, how to become the calm in a room that wanted to break.
She was good at it.
That was the problem.
At three forty-seven in the morning, the ward smelled of antiseptic and microwaved noodles and something metallic that lived under everything no matter how much you cleaned. The lights were too bright. The silence between beeps was too loud. Aoife stood at the nurses’ station with a clipboard tucked against her ribs, reading notes she’d already memorised, because staring at words was easier than staring at the shape of her own thoughts.
“Byrne,” a voice said behind her, half laughing. “You’re doing that thing again.”
Aoife didn’t turn. “What thing?”
“The one where you pretend the notes are going to change if you stare hard enough.”
She finally looked over her shoulder.
Niamh O’Shea leaned on the counter, hair pulled into a messy bun that looked like it had survived a natural disaster. Her eyes were sharp. Her mouth was soft in a way that made people confess things without meaning to. She was the kind of friend who’d fight your battles and then scold you for getting into them in the first place.
Aoife’s mouth went flat. “I’m making sure I’ve got everything.”
“You’ve got everything,” Niamh said. “You always have everything. Even when you don’t.”
Aoife turned back to the clipboard. “If you’ve come over here to psychoanalyse me, I’ll file a complaint.”
“To who?” Niamh asked. “Yourself?”
Aoife made a sound that could’ve been a laugh if it had been warmer. “Go away.”
Niamh leaned closer. “You’ve been out on your break yet?”
“Had tea.”
“That doesn’t count as a break.”
“It’s tea. It’s sacred.”
“Hospital tea is not sacred,” Niamh said, scandalised. “Hospital tea is a punishment for crimes you haven’t committed.”
Aoife’s lips twitched despite herself. She could feel the ache behind her eyes, the deep fatigue that lived in her shoulders. She’d been on her feet since seven, and the night had been heavy—an emergency admission, a patient trying to climb out of bed, a family call that had ended in shouting. But she’d held it, as always. She’d smoothed it down and made it manageable. She’d moved through it like she was built of something tougher than blood.
“Alright,” Aoife said, because arguing would take energy she didn’t have. “I’ll go out for five.”
“Good girl,” Niamh said, like Aoife was a terrier she’d finally managed to sit.
Aoife shot her a look. “Don’t.”
Niamh grinned. “Go. Before I start reciting mindfulness affirmations at you.”
Aoife shuddered theatrically and walked away, steps quiet along the corridor. Curtains hung in soft folds. Patients slept in fragments—breathing, shifting, murmuring, waking for pain meds, waking for fear. Aoife passed them with a practiced gentleness, her hands steady, her face neutral, her heart tucked away where it couldn’t get caught.
Outside, the air hit her like a slap.
Cold. Damp. Alive.
The night had that Galway softness to it—mist in the air, rain threatening, the world lit in warm gold by streetlamps that made everything look kinder than it was. Aoife stood under the awning with her thermos and breathed, letting the cold burn the sleepiness off her skin.
Tea at four a.m. tasted different.
Everything did.
It wasn’t just flavour. It was context. Tea after a night shift was not a drink. It was a tether. A ritual. A way of saying: you are still here.
Aoife sipped.
Too strong. Too sweet.
Perfect.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Aoife froze.
She knew what it would be without looking—her own reminder, the one she’d set and couldn’t bring herself to delete. A nagging little notification that popped up at the worst times, like the universe had a mean streak and a calendar.
She didn’t take the phone out.
Not here. Not now.
She looked instead at the street beyond the hospital car park. Galway in the small hours was quieter, but never empty. A bus slid past with only a few passengers, the driver alone in a bright square of light like a man piloting a tiny aquarium. Somewhere in the distance a gull screamed as if offended by sleep. Rain glittered on the road like the city had been freshly varnished.
Aoife let her mind go still. Five minutes. Cold air. Hot tea. Back inside. Reset.
Then she heard it.
Three notes.
Soft. Unfinished. Familiar in a way she couldn’t place.
Aoife’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t loud enough to be a song from a pub. It wasn’t sharp enough to be someone practising. It was more like a hum caught in the air—someone circling the same thought without realising it.
She leaned forward slightly, searching the dark with her eyes as if she could locate sound the way you could locate smoke.
Across the street, a door opened. Light spilled out. A man stepped into it, adjusting the strap of a long case slung over one shoulder. He moved like the hour belonged to him. Not drunk. Not loud. Not performing. Just… awake, comfortable in the small hours.
He paused under a streetlamp and tilted his head, as if listening to the rain.
Aoife watched without meaning to.
Then he looked up.
Their eyes met.
Aoife’s first instinct was to look away, because that was what she did now—she didn’t invite anything. She didn’t open doors. She didn’t offer strangers a soft place to land their attention.
But she was tired, and tired made her reflexes slower. The moment held.
He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t act entitled to her gaze.
He simply looked at her—steady, calm—and gave her a small nod, like they were both members of an unspoken club: people awake when they weren’t supposed to be.
Aoife swallowed.
Before she could stop herself, she nodded back.
The man turned and began walking toward the city, rain darkening his shoulders. Aoife tracked him for a second—his easy stride, his quiet competence—then snapped her gaze away, annoyed with herself for watching.
She shut her thermos and went back inside, letting fluorescent light swallow her whole.
Back on the ward, everything resumed: beeps, charts, pain, small emergencies that weren’t small to the person living them. Aoife moved through it like she always did—efficient, steady, kind in a way that didn’t cost her too much. She avoided her phone. She avoided the reminder. She avoided the sharp edge of missing.
By half six, the sky outside began to pale, reluctant and grey.
By seven, Aoife clocked out.
Day shift arrived smelling faintly of shampoo and optimism. Aoife handed over, accepted murmured thanks, filed praise away in the place inside her that didn’t quite believe it. She walked out with Niamh beside her, Niamh talking enough for both of them, filling the morning with bright commentary about supervisors and patients and the injustice of hospital tea.
They crossed the car park, turned toward the river.
The Corrib rushed beneath the bridge, swollen from rain, dark and fast. It sounded like constant whispering. Aoife paused with her hands on the railing, letting the movement of water drag her mind out of its panic.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Niamh said.
Aoife didn’t look at her. “What thing?”
“The one where you look like you want the river to carry you off so you don’t have to be Aoife Byrne, Responsible Adult Who Holds Everything Together.”
Aoife’s fingers tightened on the railing. The water roared beneath them like it had somewhere to be.
Niamh nudged her shoulder gently. “Come on. Breakfast at mine. Tea. Toast. Something that isn’t hospital air. Then you can go home and disappear.”
Aoife wanted to refuse. Solitude was her default now. But solitude had teeth. It bit when you weren’t looking.
“Fine,” Aoife muttered. “Tea and toast.”
“Good,” Niamh said, satisfied. “And I’ve got scones.”
They walked on, past wet stone and shuttered shops, past posters on walls advertising gigs and poetry nights Aoife no longer attended. She scanned them without interest, because music belonged to the part of her life that felt closed.
Then she heard it again.
Three notes.
Soft and deliberate, close enough to have texture.
Aoife stopped.
Niamh turned. “What?”
Aoife didn’t answer. She looked across the street.
A small studio space sat tucked between buildings, door propped open. Inside: cables, road cases, a mixing desk glowing in the interior light. A van was parked outside, ramp down. Someone carried gear with practised ease.
And at the threshold was the man from the hospital.
Daylight softened his features. Dark hair damp at the edges. Stubble along his jaw. Grey-green eyes that reminded Aoife of the sea just before a storm. He stood there with his phone in hand, humming those three notes like they lived in his bones.
He glanced up.
Their eyes met again.
Aoife’s stomach did a stupid little jump.
Niamh followed Aoife’s gaze and made a delighted noise. “Oh,” she whispered. “Ohhh. Look at that.”
Aoife hissed. “Don’t.”
“What?” Niamh whispered loudly, because subtlety had never been her strength. “He’s fit.”
Aoife’s cheeks burned. “Niamh.”
The man’s mouth twitched, like he’d heard something, or like he simply found Aoife’s existence mildly amusing.
A voice called from inside the studio: “Ronan, you ready? We’re late as it is.”
Ronan turned his head. “Aye. Two seconds.”
Then he looked back at Aoife, attention steady.
“Night shift?” he asked, voice low and roughened by the hour.
Aoife’s brain stalled. She managed, “Yeah.”
Ronan nodded toward her lanyard. “Hospital, so. Fair play.”
Niamh’s eyes went wide with glee. She mouthed, He’s talking to you.
Aoife shot her a warning look.
Ronan’s gaze shifted to Niamh, polite and curious. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Niamh said brightly. “I’m Niamh. I’m her friend.”
Aoife made a strangled noise.
“Ronan,” he said, smiling faintly. “Nice to meet you.”
Niamh leaned in. “Do you always hum in the street like you’re in a film?”
Ronan blinked, then laughed softly. “Do I?”
“Yes,” Aoife said before she could stop herself.
Both of them looked at her.
Aoife’s throat went tight. She hadn’t meant to admit she’d noticed.
Ronan’s expression softened. “Right,” he said quietly. “Fair enough.”
Niamh grinned like a menace. “She’s been hearing you,” she announced. “At the hospital too.”
Aoife wanted the pavement to swallow her.
Ronan’s gaze returned to Aoife, calm. “Aye?”
Aoife’s voice came out quieter than she liked. “It’s… three notes.”
Ronan’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “It is.”
“What is it?” Niamh demanded.
Ronan hesitated. “Nothing, really. Just… something I keep coming back to.”
Aoife couldn’t help it. “Why?”
Ronan’s eyes held hers for a beat too long. “Habit,” he said carefully. “Or maybe I’m waiting for the rest of it.”
Waiting for the rest of it.
The words lodged in Aoife’s chest like a seed.
Niamh made a sound, half delighted, half offended. “That’s very poetic for this hour.”
Ronan’s mouth quirked. “It’s Galway. The city does half the work.”
Aoife’s pulse kicked again, traitorous.
Ronan shifted the strap on his shoulder, glancing toward the studio. “Listen, I’m not trying to interrupt your… morning routine.”
“Our routine is dying slowly and eating toast out of spite,” Niamh said.
Ronan laughed softly. Then his gaze returned to Aoife. “You alright, like? You look wrecked.”
Aoife stiffened. “I’m fine.”
Ronan nodded, accepting the boundary without offence. “Right. Course.”
Something about that ease loosened Aoife’s ribs.
He glanced at her thermos. “Tea’s a holy thing after a night like that.”
“It’s hospital tea,” Aoife muttered.
Ronan’s tone turned mock solemn. “Ah. Then you’re suffering twice.”
Niamh cackled. “See? Funny. That’s a good sign.”
Aoife glared at her.
Niamh ignored it. “If you hurt her, I’ll bury you in the bog.”
Ronan’s expression went thoughtful, gentle. He looked at Aoife, not Niamh.
“I wouldn’t,” he said quietly.
Aoife’s throat tightened painfully.
Niamh looked briefly chastened, then recovered. “Good. Because I’ll kill you.”
Ronan nodded as if that was fair. “Fair.”
Aoife turned to Niamh. “We’re going.”
Niamh tried to protest.
Aoife repeated, “We’re going,” and meant it.
Ronan stepped back toward the studio. “Get home safe, yeah?”
Aoife nodded. “You too.”
Ronan hesitated. “There’s a café by the river,” he said. “Open early. Savage scone. And they don’t look at you like you’ve committed a crime for existing before nine.”
Niamh made an approving sound. “We already have scones.”
Ronan’s eyes crinkled faintly. “Then you’re sorted.”
Aoife surprised herself by saying, “Thanks.”
Ronan’s gaze warmed. “No bother.”
He glanced at her lanyard. “Aoife.”
Her heart lurched at the sound of her name in his mouth.
“Ronan,” she returned, because apparently she was now a person who did that.
“See you around,” he said.
Then he disappeared inside the studio, and Aoife walked away with Niamh’s delighted commentary bouncing off her skull.
Breakfast happened. Tea. Toast. Niamh’s fierce affection. Aoife’s exhaustion. The kettle click in Niamh’s kitchen that sounded too much like her mother’s kitchen. A warning from Niamh about the voicemail. Aoife’s quiet admission that the voicemail felt like the only thing she had left. Niamh’s gentle, brutal truth: maybe it was the only thing Aoife was letting herself have.
Aoife went home.
She told herself she’d sleep.
Instead, she listened to her mother’s voice again because grief was a habit and pain could be mistaken for closeness if you were lonely enough.
And when the message ended and the quiet snapped back into place, Aoife sat on her sofa with her tea cooling beside her and stared at the rain on the window like it might answer her.
Her phone buzzed.
Aoife flinched, expecting the reminder.
It wasn’t.
Unknown number.
Hi. It’s Ronan. (Studio by the river.) I found this on the pavement outside the hospital earlier—figured it was yours. I can drop it by if you tell me where, or you can meet me for five by the café. No pressure.
Also—sorry if this is weird. Just didn’t want you losing it.
Aoife checked her bag with shaking hands.
The small digital recorder—the one she used for voice notes when she couldn’t sleep, the one she carried like a charm—was gone.
Ronan had it.
And if he had it, he had her fragments in his pocket.
Aoife’s thumb hovered.
She typed before she could talk herself out of it.
Where are you now?
* * *