“But this is specifically water that speaks but doesn’t flow.” Dylan stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. “That’s unusual. Most water either moves or it’s silent.”
“Unless…” Aidan’s eyes lit up. “The well. There’s an old well on the back forty. We used to drop stones down it as kids, listening to the echo. Water that speaks when something disturbs it, but it doesn’t flow anywhere.”
“How far is it?”
“From here? Maybe three miles through the forest, or we can go back and drive around the long way.”
Dylan looked at the sun climbing through the trees, calculating time and distance. “Let’s walk. I want to see more of the land.”
They set off through the forest, following a trail that might have been made by deer or might have been worn by generations of O’Hara children playing in their backyard wilderness. Aidan moved with the confidence of someone who’d memorized every tree, every stone, every shift in elevation. Dylan found herself watching him as much as the path, seeing him in his element in a way the garage never quite allowed.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” she said as they walked. “The real him, not just the stories everyone tells.”
Aidan ducked under a low branch, holding it aside for her. “He was complicated. Everyone remembers the charming Irishman with a story for every occasion, but there was more to him than that. He’d seen things in Korea that he never talked about. Lost friends. Came home different, my grandmother said.”
“Is that why he liked puzzles? To keep his mind busy?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just liked making us work for things. He always said the O’Haras had it too easy, that struggle built character.”
They emerged into a clearing where the remains of an old cabin stood, barely more than a chimney and a few foundation stones. Aidan stopped, his expression shifting to something Dylan couldn’t read.
“This was where my great-great-uncle lived,” he said quietly. “Seamus’s son. He was what they called ‘simple’ back then. Couldn’t handle town, couldn’t handle people, but he could gentle any horse, grow anything in soil everyone else said was worthless. The family built him this cabin so he could live on his own terms.”
“They took care of him,” Dylan said, understanding. “Even when it would have been easier to send him away.”
“O’Haras don’t abandon their own.” The words carried weight, like a vow passed down through generations. “It’s why the family’s survived everything—the Nine Years’ War, the famine, the journey to America, the Depression, droughts, fires. We stay together.”
Something in Dylan’s chest ached at that—the promise of belonging she’d never had, the security of knowing that no matter what, someone would catch you if you fell. Her own family had scattered like dandelion seeds after her father’s death, each carrying their grief in different directions.
They continued walking, the forest growing denser, older, until they reached another clearing where a stone circle marked the location of the old well. Someone—probably Aidan’s father—had covered it with heavy planks years ago, a safety measure for a new generation of adventurous children.
“Water that speaks,” Dylan said softly as they pried off the boards.
When they dropped a stone into the darkness, the echo that came back was like a voice from the past—hollow, patient, keeping secrets in the dark. They searched the well’s rim, Dylan’s fingers finding the subtle differences in mortar that suggested Patrick’s handiwork.
“Here,” she said, pressing on a stone that gave slightly under pressure.
It took both of them to work it free, revealing another oilcloth bundle, another piece of the puzzle. But when Dylan unfolded the paper, she found not just a clue but a longer message in Patrick’s script:
“‘Well done, boy. If you’re reading this, then you’ve brought the clever one with you, the one who sees patterns where others see chaos. Your grandmother was like that—could look at a field and see the garden it could become, look at a young man full of anger from war and see the husband he might be.
“‘The ring is closer now, but first another truth—the O’Haras didn’t survive by strength alone. We survived because we knew when to fight and when to build, when to stand firm and when to bend. We survived because we found partners who made us better than we were alone.
“‘Your next clue—Where love first bloomed on O’Hara land, / where promises were made by heart and hand, / look for the place where two became one, / beneath the tree that faces the sun.’”
Dylan’s hands trembled slightly as she finished reading. “He’s not just sending you on a treasure hunt.”
“No,” Aidan agreed, his voice rough. “He’s trying to teach me something.”
“About what?”
“About what actually matters. About the difference between existing and living. About… About how the O’Haras really survived all these years.”
They stood there in the clearing, the weight of history and expectation settling around them like fog. Somewhere in these mountains was a ring that had crossed an ocean, survived famines and wars, been worn by men and women who’d built something from nothing. But Patrick hadn’t hidden it just to make Aidan work for it.
He’d hidden it to make him understand what it meant.
“Where did your grandparents get married?” Dylan asked, practical even in the face of revelation.
