Tadhg saw her before anyone else did.

He always did.

It wasn’t because she demanded attention. Quite the opposite — she moved through the world like a ghost, shoulders tucked in, face blank, never speaking a word since Caoimhe died.

But today, in the middle of a loud lunchroom full of rugby lads throwing chips and girls gossiping at the speed of light, she smiled.

Barely.

Just a twitch of the corner of her mouth as she sat at the edge of the table, looking at something on her phone. Quiet. Small. Real.

Tadhg froze, holding a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth, staring at her like she was a miracle.

But then—

“Oh my god,” Lizzie's voice cut through the noise. Sharp. Loud. Hurt.

Tadhg turned, just in time to see Lizzie standing behind her twin’s seat, arms folded, eyes full of fire.

“You’re smiling now?” she snapped.

Her twin blinked, startled. The smile vanished.

“You haven’t looked at me in months.” Lizzie’s voice trembled. “Haven’t said a word. Haven’t been with me. You just disappeared.”

The table around them fell quiet. Tadhg stood slowly, his tray forgotten.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to lose two sisters in one day?” Lizzie’s voice cracked. “Because that’s what it felt like. You left me, too.”

Her twin tried to look at her, tried to reach out — but her hand trembled, and she pulled it back like touching Lizzie might burn.

Tadhg stepped forward, placing himself gently between them. Not confronting. Just there.

“Lizzie,” he said quietly, his voice deep but soft, “maybe she’s just trying. Today.”

Lizzie’s eyes darted to him, jaw tight. “Trying?”

He nodded. “One step’s still a step. Maybe it’s just a smile today.”

Lizzie looked like she wanted to fight it. To shout. But she just shook her head, tears in her eyes.

“I needed you.” She whispered it to her sister. “I still do.”

And then she turned and walked away, fast, her shoulders shaking.

Her twin didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Tadhg sat down slowly beside her, close enough that their arms almost touched. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled napkin, and scribbled something in messy handwriting with the pen he always kept behind his ear.

He slid it to her without a word.

“You smiled today. That means hope still lives in you somewhere. I’ll wait as long as it takes to see it again.”

She stared at it, tears brimming but not falling. Her hand trembled again.

And then, carefully, she picked up the pen.