“I don’t know how to be sad with you,” he admitted. “You’ve earned your sadness. Mine just feels like ingratitude.”
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. 4 seasons dublin
“You look like someone who forgot how to feel the rain,” he said, not looking up. His voice was a low gravel, like the Liffey at low tide. “I don’t know how to be sad with you,” he admitted