Moon-Drawn Steps

The night air bit at the stone walls of the cottage, a damp, cutting chill that seeped into everything. Máire sat by the banked fire, pretending to mend a tear in a flour sack, but her eyes kept flicking to the window, a dark rectangle against the oppressive gloom outside. Loughrea wasn't far, but out here, on the edge of the bog, the world felt swallowed by the long, heavy silence after sundown. Curfew meant little to the land, but everything to the people. Every creak of the old timbers, every whistle of the wind through the cracks, sounded like a patrol boot on the lane, or worse, a shout.

Her mother snored softly in the small room off the kitchen, a tired, ragged sound. Her da was gone, like so many others, just gone. Máire was twenty, too old to be waiting on a boy like a schoolgirl, but the flutter in her gut wasn't girlish. It was the frantic beat of a bird trapped in a cage, a mix of desperate hope and gut-wrenching dread. He’d sent word. A scratched symbol on the butter paper, left by the milk cart driver. Tonight. The old standing stone, where the three fields met.

She waited until her mother’s snores deepened, until the fire was a mere memory of embers. Then, slow as frost creeping across a pane, she moved. Her boots were already by the door, wrapped in an old cloth to muffle the sound. The wool shawl, thick and dark, pulled tight around her head, hiding her pale hair, blending her into the moonless grey. She eased the latch, a tiny click that sounded like a gunshot in the stillness. A breath held, then another. The door, a dark maw, opened just enough for her to slip through, pulling it shut with agonizing slowness, no click this time, just a soft thud against the frame.

The air outside was sharper than she remembered, slicing through her thin clothes. A sliver of moon, a fingernail clipping, hung low, barely breaking the dark. The bog road was a ribbon of lighter grey, twisting between the deeper shadows of gorse bushes and low stone walls. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat urging her faster, yet her steps were measured, silent. Every rustle of dry leaves, every distant dog bark, froze her in place, her breath catching in her throat, ears straining. She imagined the roar of a lorry engine, the harsh shouts, the rough hands grabbing at her in the dark. The fear was a cold, tight knot in her belly.

It took a quarter hour, maybe more, to reach the stone. It stood like a silent sentinel, ancient and indifferent to the mortal struggles beneath its gaze. No one. Just the wind, whispering secrets through the sparse grass. Her hands, despite the cold, felt clammy. What if he hadn't come? What if he’d been caught? The thoughts were sharp thorns, pricking at her resolve. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to still the tremble that started in her knees and worked its way up her spine. Then, a shadow detached itself from the deeper shadows behind the stone. He moved without a sound, a ghost in the landscape.

Liam. His face, when he finally turned, was gaunt, smeared with dirt, lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes that weren't there a month ago. He wore a patched tweed jacket, too thin for the cold, and carried the smell of peat smoke and damp earth. He didn't speak. Couldn’t. They hadn’t the luxury of words, not out here. His eyes, though, they held a story Máire understood: danger, hunger, a desperate need for what little comfort she offered. He reached for her, his hand rough, calloused, but gentle as he pulled her close.

They stood there, pressed together, for a long moment, the silence thick with everything unspoken. Then, a slow, almost imperceptible sway began. A shift of weight, a shared breath. No music, just the rustle of their clothes, the beat of two hearts. They moved like the shadows around them, slow and deliberate, a desperate, silent jig for two, a desperate affirmation that they were still here, still breathing, still capable of this small, forbidden connection. His chin rested on her head, her ear pressed to his chest, hearing the steady, reassuring thud of his life against the vast, uncertain night. This wasn't a dance for joy; it was a dance for survival, for memory, for the sheer audacity of existing.

He pulled back first, his breath a ragged whisper against her ear. "Patrol. Heard them pass an hour ago, but they could turn back." His voice was a low rasp, raw with disuse and cold. The words, so few, carried the weight of the war, the constant threat. They were a stark reminder that this fragile moment was borrowed, stolen from a world that wanted to tear them apart. He pressed a small, cold object into her hand – a silver button, tarnished, but hers, the one she’d given him months ago, before he’d vanished into the hills.

He faded back into the dark as quickly as he'd appeared, a silent retreat. Máire stood for another minute, clutching the button, feeling its cold comfort, its sharp edges. The silence that followed his departure was heavier, colder than before. The wind seemed to mock her, tugging at her shawl, chilling her to the bone.

Her walk back was quicker, fueled by the cold and the fresh sting of separation. The cottage, when she reached it, looked no less threatening, but now it held the promise of warmth, a small sanctuary from the vast, unforgiving night. She slipped inside, a shadow returning to its rightful place.

By the embers, she unfolded her hand, the silver button glinting faintly in the dying light. She clutched it tight, a tiny, defiant spark in the dark.