The Lighthouse at the End of Consciousness
There are certain buildings that exist not in space but between spaces—places where the architecture itself becomes a kind of language, speaking in frequencies that bypass the ear and reach directly into the architecture of memory. The Old Grey Lighthouse on the west coast of Donegal was such a place. It had stood for two hundred and forty-seven...
The Pale Mist
The lighthouse on the Cliffs of Moher did not belong to her. She had inherited it the way one inherits a weather pattern—inevitably, without consent, as something that simply arrives and changes the shape of everything around it.
Catherine Ashworth-Moore stood on the gallery deck of the tower, wrapped in a coat that was not hers, watching the Irish Sea turn itself into mist and...
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