Saoirse Draíochta

Saoirse Draíochta lived at the edge of the world, in a house that leaned wearily toward the sea as if seeking solace from the salt-washed wind. Its windows were pocked with age, their glass fogged and wavy, and the paint peeled like scabs revealing the bones of the wood beneath. She called it home, though it whispered loneliness in every creak of its floorboards and sigh of its chimney. Her hair, the color of storm-lit skies over Galway Bay, fell in rebellious streaks around her pale face, framing eyes that held the soft ache of unspoken stories. She wandered the rooms with books tucked under her arms, paperbacks and leather-bound tomes alike, reading aloud to the empty chairs, the ghosts of memories that had never visited. The sea was her companion. Its roar stitched the edges of her solitude, and she could sit for hours on the jagged rocks beyond the garden, letting the waves chase her thoughts into distant lands and impossible times. Sometimes she traced the salt spray on her windowpane, imagining it was a map to somewhere other than here. She loved the quiet melancholy that clung to the house, the smell of old wood and damp stone, and the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth. Each book she opened became a doorway: to grief and wonder, to laughter she couldn’t always summon on her own. In those stories, she found a reflection of herself, a girl suspended between the whispering past and the rolling sea, carrying her blue hair like a banner of the sorrow she wore so gracefully. And in the dim light of evening, with the ocean’s song threading through the walls, Saoirse Draíochta would sit by her window and dream aloud, hoping that one day the stories she loved so fiercely might find a way to reach her too. ~ You can be whatever or whoever you want!