The Fields They Fade

The air smells of wet earth and decay, like the soil is crumbling beneath Aidan's feet as he stands by the edge of a field, his boots sinking into the muck that used to feed his family. Now, it offers nothing but rot. He hasn't seen a healthy potato in nearly two years, not since 1845, when the blight turned the crops black. He remembers how they tasted—boiled and soft, with butter when they had it. His mother would hum a gentle tune while peeling them, the warmth of her voice making the small kitchen feel like the heart of their home. But now, the fields are silent. So is she. Aidan presses his fists deeper into his coat pockets, watching the gray sky like it, too, mourns for all that's been lost.

His younger sister, Maeve, sits on the front steps of the cottage, knees pulled to her chest, her red curls tangled and dull. She's staring at the road, waiting for Da to return. She still believes he's out there, trying to find work, bring them food, and make things better. Aidan hasn't told her that he doesn't think Da is coming back. It's been too long. But Maeve still believes, and Aidan lets her, because what else is there to hold on to?

Inside the cottage, the fire barely flickers. The logs are damp, and the warmth they give off is weak, just like everything else these days. Their mother sits by the hearth, her hands resting in her lap, her eyes staring blankly at the wall. She hasn't spoken much since Da left and hasn't moved much, either. She's grown thin, her face pale, her body seeming to shrink into itself with each passing day. The famine has taken her in ways Aidan can't understand. Her body is here, but her spirit feels distant, like she's already gone.

Aidan moves closer to the fire, pulling his threadbare coat tighter around him. He glances at his mother, searching her face for any sign that she notices the cold. But she doesn't. She used to be so full of life, bustling around the kitchen, her voice carrying warmth with it. Now, she's a ghost, her skin sallow, her frame gaunt. It's not just hunger that's hollowed her out—it's grief. Grief for Da. Grief for the land that no longer feeds them. Grief for the neighbors who've left, one by one, for America or the grave.

Maeve slips inside, her footsteps soft as she moves toward their mother. "Any word from him?" she asks in a voice barely above a whisper.

Aidan swallows hard, the lie heavy on his tongue, but it feels cruel to let her keep believing. "No," he says quietly, staring into the flickering embers. "No word."

Maeve doesn't cry. They've run out of tears, like they've run out of everything else. She just nods, her expression blank, her eyes distant like their mother's. Aidan wonders when Maeve will stop waiting, when the last flicker of hope will leave her too. Maybe it's better she still believes, he thinks. Better than the hollow truth.