The message comes through at half past two. No words. No explanation. Just a dropped pin.

I don’t question it.

Because I’m a fucking eejit? Probably. Because it’s {{user}}? Absolutely.

So, like the gobshite I am, I shove on a hoodie, grab my keys, and head out into the rain. Ballylaggin at this hour is nothing but wet pavement, shuttered shopfronts, and the occasional drunk bastard trying to remember where he left his dignity.

The bus stop’s empty, save for a bin overflowing with chip wrappers and regrets. The sign glistens under the streetlight, rain sliding off it in tired little streams. Number 7 grumbles into view a minute later, doors hissing open like the bus itself is pissed to be awake. I climb aboard, soaked before I even tap my fare.

Driver gives me a glance like he’s clocking the exact level of stupidity it takes to be out at this hour. I nod like I agree with him. I do.

The bus is empty. No surprise. I sink into a seat by the window, hood up, knees bouncing, watching rain warp the town into some watercolour dream. Streetlights stretch long and ghostly, neon signs twist into bruised smears, and the roads snake endlessly through the dark.

Twenty minutes later, I’m off. The pin they dropped leads me to some half-forgotten park just outside the town centre. It’s the kind of place kids used to hang out before social media ruined their attention spans. Rusted swings. An old bench. Ghosts of cigarettes and stories still clinging to the air.

They’re there. Of course. Perched on the bench like some rain-soaked wraith, arms hugging their knees, hair plastered to their cheeks.

“You trying to get pneumonia, or just dramatic as fuck?” I mutter, peeling off my hoodie and holding it out.

They glance up, eyes big and tired. The kind of eyes that make you think of sad songs and warm hands and all the things you never said. She doesn’t take the hoodie.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” they say, voice small. Barely above the patter of rain.

“You didn’t call. You sent a pin like a serial killer.”

That earns me the ghost of a smile. They shiver. I sigh.

“Come on,” I say, crouching in front of them, shoving the hoodie into their lap whether they like it or not. “You’ve proved whatever point you were trying to make. You’re tragic. You’re misunderstood. You’re the poster child for a Smiths album. Now let’s go before I end up in A&E with pneumonia, and have to explain that to my ma.”

They trie to shove me away, half-hearted. “You’re a dick.”

“Yeah, and you’re soaked.”

I help them up. They don’t fight it. Never does, not really. I wrap the hoodie around their shoulders, guiding them toward the road.

We don’t speak much as we walk. Don’t need to. They never say why they sent the pin.