Four knots to the wind

He stared at it, heart thudding now, unsure whether to

open it … or turn back.

It had stood there for years, forgotten by most. But not

by John. Not tonight.

The moonlight poured through the open window like a

silent witness. Dust hung in the air, disturbed by his breath.

The scent of turf still clung faintly to the stones, as if the

walls refused to forget.

He wiped the dust off the lid and opened the box, the

hinges creaking like something long forgotten waking from

sleep.

Behind it, wrapped in oilcloth, was a small metal box

— dented, rusted at the corners, but dry and intact. He

held it in the moonlight, and something about it made him

swallow hard.

He sat on the old bench — or what was left of it — and

opened the box.

Cash. Neatly bound notes, old and familiar.

Inside, nestled in a square of old flannel, lay a mouth

organ. It caught the light — still shiny, still whole. Not a

speck of rust on it.

John let out a low breath, part laugh, part sigh.

He lifted it gently, turning it over in his hands like a relic.

The metal was cool at first, but warmed quickly in his palm.

A smile crept across his face — slow, unguarded.

“Well now,” he whispered.

He chuckled softly, the kind of laugh that came from

far away, from a place with younger days and firelight, and

someone — maybe Coffey, maybe his lost brother —playing

that very tune by the hearth.120

Still smiling, he brought it to his lips. He didn’t play, not

yet. Just held it there, listening for a note that might rise up

by itself, carried on memory.

The wind moaned softly through the chimney. Somewhere

outside, a branch cracked — or perhaps something moved

past. John Coffey stirred, shifting uneasily as his eyes swept

the shadows. Then he raised the old mouth organ, pressed

it to his lips, and leaned back against the cold stone wall.

With a long, steady breath, he began to play. The tune

floated out — Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, the Irish lullaby — soft

and slow, as though the hills themselves were humming it

back. The sound rolled down the slope in the hush of the

night, threading itself into the sleeping village below.

Down on the lane, young Fergal had just stopped his

bicycle to fix the chain. One hand blackened with grease,

he paused, half-crouched.

Then he heard it.

A tune — so delicate it seemed to drift in from a dream.