Above her, the first stars pricked through the violet dusk. Dublin lay quiet around her, ancient and patient, having seen a thousand seasons come and go. It would see a thousand more. And so, she realised, would she—not because the pain ended, but because she had finally learned to live inside the turning.
Spring would come again. It always did. But first, she had to honour the winter. And that, she decided, was its own kind of courage. 4 seasons dublin
The winter had lasted three years, or so it felt to Aisling. Not the calendar winter, but the one she carried inside—a dense, frozen knot that had taken root the day she buried her mother under a sky the colour of wet slate. Above her, the first stars pricked through the violet dusk
Autumn is the season of harvest, but also of rot. She learned that some loves are not meant to survive the frost. They are annuals, not perennials. Beautiful. Brief. True, for their time. And so, she realised, would she—not because the