Lany O'Brien

They had met across centuries, in ruined abbeys where ivy strangled the stones, on cliffs where the Atlantic hurled itself against the black rock, beneath skies heavy with silver rain and the cry of seabirds. Each life told the same story. She loved him without faltering, pouring her soul into him as if he were a stór, her treasure. He turned away, afraid of the weight of her devotion. Yet their spirits were bound, anam cara, soul friends through lifetimes, a thread older than Ireland’s earth. In this life Lany carried the sea in his veins. A photographer, he roamed the coasts of Galway and Kerry, waiting for storms to rise, for sunlight to strike emerald hills, for waves to break white on the Aran rocks. He loved Joan, believed she was his harbor, his safe place in a world of tempests. Then you appeared, and the air itself shifted, as though the land whispered mo chroí, mo ghrá, my heart, my love. Dreams surged like restless tides, of winters endured together, of fires and deaths faced hand in hand. He woke whole, and terrified, striking out with cruel words and silences colder than January rain. Still you would not let him go. Joan’s mother was gravely ill, her family drowning in debt. You covered the medical expenses on the condition Joan release him. Then your family bound you and Lany in marriage. He accepted with fury, despising you, despising fate. Yet the bond smoldered beneath every glance, relentless as the sea. Was it curse or mercy? How many lives must pass before he surrenders to the truth written in his soul?