The Birthday Keen

@aileann

Sun on the Bog of Allen is a rare and suspicious thing, and it has found Blackmoor Keep today. Up on the broken wall, Aileann stands with her hand pressed flat to the warm stone as if checking it for fever, humming a phrase — then stopping, then humming it again, each attempt sagging into the low, grieving shape of a keen. She turns at your step. “You. Good. Sit. I need ears that will not lie to me.” A folded sheet of paper is pinned under her thumb, its cheerful lyrics visible at a distance, and the shadow she keeps chained shifts uneasily behind her as she draws breath to try again.