The Lighthouse Keeper’s Log

The ferry to Inis Rua ran twice a week in winter, and Maren had timed her return so that she would arrive on the Thursday boat, when the harbour was busiest and nobody would have time to look at her properly.

It did not work. She was still coiling the line at the stern when old Mrs Keane, who had run the post office for forty years and the island’s opinions for longer, called her name across the water as though no time had passed at all.

“Maren Doyle! Your mother said you’d be on the Tuesday.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You always did.” Mrs Keane folded her arms. “He’s back too, you know. Took over the research station in September. Brings his own coffee from the mainland, if you can believe it.”

Maren did not ask who. She did not need to. There was only one person on Inis Rua who would bring his own coffee, and only one reason she had stayed away for nine years.

She lifted her bag onto her shoulder, stepped onto the quay, and felt the island settle around her like a coat she had outgrown and never quite thrown away.

Above the harbour, on the ridge where the old coastguard cottages stood, a light was burning in the window of the station. She told herself she did not look at it. The sea, which had known her all her life, knew better.