The woman sat down. Her name was Saoirse. Her father, the old man on the bench, had died two days after giving Eleanor the ticket. “He had a gift,” Saoirse said. “He saw who needed a thread to hold.”
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.”
An old man in a faded Leinster jersey sat down beside her. He didn’t look at her, just at the daffodil. four seasons dublin
Here’s a short story inspired by the four seasons in Dublin.
“No,” she said. “I think I’m waiting for myself.” The woman sat down
“I—yes. In the park.”
Eleanor looked down at the Liffey, brown and patient. “He had a gift,” Saoirse said
She turned. He was young, with rain-dark hair and a camera around his neck. His name was Fintan, a historian who gave walking tours of the northside. He wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. He was looking for someone who saw the city the way he did.