4 Seasons — Dublin

She sat on a bench near the fountain, which was turned off for the season. A girl, maybe seven years old, ran past with her father, chasing a football. The girl fell. She didn’t cry. She got up, brushed her knees, and kicked the ball again.

“Winter is not the enemy,” he said, handing her a paper cup of chai that steamed in the cold. “Winter is the soil resting. You cannot plant in frozen ground. You wait. You tend the roots you cannot see.” 4 seasons dublin

On the shortest day, she walked alone through St. Stephen’s Green. The ducks were gone. The flowers were a memory. But the bare trees were beautiful—their black branches intricate as veins, as neural pathways, as the cracks in the heart that let the light in. She sat on a bench near the fountain,

“It’s not you,” he said, on a bench in Phoenix Park, the deer watching from a distance like ancient judges. A storm was coming. The chestnut trees shook. She didn’t cry

Aisling smiled. It was a small smile, barely a movement of muscle. But it was real. It was winter, and she was still here. The dark had not swallowed her. The cold had not killed her.

She wanted to argue. She wanted to say that sadness isn't a competition, that grief doesn't hoard all the shadows. But the words turned to mist. They walked home in silence, the wind off the Liffey sharp as a blade. That night, he didn’t stay. The next morning, his toothbrush was gone from her bathroom.