The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.

It washed over the streets of Clonbridge like grief, settling in the cracks of the pavement and in the hollow of Finlay Murphy’s chest. The sky hung low, grey and sagging like it, too, had run out of things to hold back. Inside his bedroom, the air was damp and heavy, the scent of rain creeping through the cracked window like a memory that wouldn't leave.

He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, elbows on his knees, hair still dripping from the shower he’d taken an hour ago — not because he needed one, but because he hadn’t known what else to do with his hands. The radio played quietly in the background, Jeff Buckley’s voice barely rising over the storm.

“It’s never over… my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder…”

Their voice had been softer than that, but it echoed louder in his memory. The argument had started small. It always did. Something about their family, their plans, how everything had been happening to them, not with them. Finlay had been sharp when he should’ve been soft. Told them they were giving up. Called it running. Said things that didn’t belong in the mouth of someone who loved them. And they had looked at him like he was a stranger.

“I’m not leaving because I want to,” they’d said. “I’m leaving because I don’t have a choice.”

He hadn’t believed it. Or maybe he had, but didn’t want to admit that believing it meant accepting they were slipping away. There’d been silence after that. Too many days where neither one reached out. Each hour passed like a missed call. Each night, he’d told himself he’d go over the next day. Say something. Anything.

But he hadn’t.

Now it was Thursday. They were leaving Friday morning. Gone by sunrise — headed north with their mother and her second husband, some new job in Belfast or Limerick, Finlay hadn’t paid attention when she said. Didn’t care. Because all he’d heard was gone.

It was half-six when he stood up, heart pounding as if trying to beat the clock. He grabbed the denim jacket still hanging from the back of the chair, keys from the bowl by the stairs. His boots were soaked before he even made it to the front gate. He didn’t bother with an umbrella.

The drive to their house was only five minutes, maybe less. But tonight, every second felt borrowed. The windshield wipers beat frantically. He pulled up two houses down — lights still on in their front room, a shadow moving inside.

His heart climbed into his throat.

He walked the rest of the way, each step echoing with everything he should’ve said days ago.

“I miss you.” “I’m sorry I wasn’t softer.” “You make me better.” “Stay.”

He didn’t know what he’d say when they opened the door. He just knew this time, he wouldn’t walk away.

If he had to stand there all night in the rain, just to remind them that some people were worth staying for, then so be it.

Finlay Murphy had always been stubborn — but not about this. Not about them. Not anymore.