She doesn’t collect secrets. They just find her.
A slip of handwriting in a puddle. A letter never posted. A whisper written in chalk behind the grocer’s bins. Orla copies them all in her notebooks  page after page  without judgment. She says it’s just in case the right person ever comes looking.

Orla’s Corner: Wishing Line

I went to the Wishing Line today and found three knots that weren’t there before.

One was tied too tight  like it was holding back tears.
One was so loose it almost slipped off in the wind.
And one had no rope at all  just air  but I could still feel it tugging on my finger.

Someone’s wish is restless.
Someone’s wish is afraid.
And someone’s wish is already on its way.

I left a crumb of bread for the restless one.
Bread always tells the truth.

Excerpt from Dawn Recital #3 
as transcribed by Orla Merrin
(beneath the amber reed horn  tuned to fog-pitch):

To the Notice at the Line

Follow the path where
the dock-leaves lean 
Past nettles that whisper
of what might’ve been 
Count two alders
(the second wears thread) 
Step where the sparrows
fluttered and fled.

Find the post where
the chewing gum clings 
Where someone once nailed
a bell without rings 
There on the side 
in rust and in pine 
Hangs the first of the words
from the Wishing Line.

Don’t stare at the smudge.
Don’t tug on the nail.
The wind knows the rest.
Let it carry the tale.

Orla's Map Poem

“There’s always been a line. First it was string. Then it was twine. Then someone tied a rosary to it  and things began to answer back." -- Father Horan’s notebook  found behind the font

The Wishing Line runs from the chapel’s rear door to the old hawthorn behind the school. It sags in the middle  like it’s tired of holding the weight of so many secrets--but it never breaks. Villagers leave little notes tied with ribbon  wool  or strips torn from pockets. Some tie dried leaves. Some whisper to it when they pass.

It’s where lost things are asked for. Blessings. Small revenges. Good weather for hay. The return of someone who never said goodbye. No one’s supposed to touch another’s ribbon--but Orla keeps track of the knots. She says every true wish hums a little. She draws them. Catalogues them. And every so often  she reads one alou

I was watching from the bank where the reeds hide you if you stoop low. The wagon had stars painted on it  faded ones  but they still shone if you looked long enough. The man’s music made the fire look as if it wanted to dance into the sky. I think the horses heard it too  for they kept still  ears turned. He said the lake listens  and I believe him  for I could feel the ripples carry the song away  all the way round to the coves where no one goes. Maybe the fish will hum it to themselves tonight.

Filed under: The Echo Shelf

I saw him again this morning  down by the pier. Just standing there wearing a cloak like the colour of smoke  and a hat that hid his face. Everyone says he is nobody  but he looks too much like somebody waiting.

Mam says it’s just the fog  and Da says it’s only an old fisherman who minds his own business. But the magpies told me different. They said he has no voice of his own  only the echo of others’. That is why he stands so still he’s listening.

Some say he waits for Captain Reeve  who never came back from the war. Others say he waits for a confession.

I only know this: he never leaves until you look away. And when you look back  there’s no sound at all. Only the ripple of the Lough  and the taste of iron in your mouth.

Orla Merrin

Orla Merrin’s Wishing Line Log - Entry #248
Date: Still night  early August
Location of Find: South bank  between the hayfield and the water
Ribbon: Linen  hand-frayed
Item: Blackberry-dyed feather
Note: None  just the feather. Ink-stained shaft.

Apple Beth says the feather wasn’t meant to be left. It must’ve slipped from her shawl or her hand when she was drawing St. Not Yet. But I don’t think so.

It was tucked into the grass like someone had planted it. Not fallen  rested. Waiting.

There was a breeze  but it didn’t move. Not even when I breathed close.

I’m keeping it in the back of the ribbon catalogue. Page marked with a dried blackberry petal.

There’s no note  but I know what the wish was.

"Let longing be its own compass."

Orla Merrin’s Wishing Line Log - Entry #212
Date: July (rainy again)
Location of Find: Old wall by the school gable
Ribbon: Wool twist with daisy stem (storm-snapped)

Note: “Let it pass overhead without breaking the roof."

I don’t think Maudie wrote it  but the weather’s heavy round her place lately. The air by Number Six feels like someone biting their tongue.

I walked past this morning and the teacup in her window was turned upside down. That's never a good sign. Usually means she’s bracing. Or listening. She boils the kettle longer when she's angry and keeps a spoon under the mat to stop dreams slipping out.

The storm’s still west of the lough  but the crows flew low.

She’s not opened that back door in 27 years. But she’s not the sort who needs to. The wind bends to her now.

I left the wish there. Just in case it was hers. Or just in case she needed it. The daisy stem had a bend  but hadn’t snapped. That’s enough sometimes.



Ribbon filed. Feather pinned. The kitchen holds.


Wish found near the west gable of the schoolhouse: “Let it pass overhead without breaking the roof."

- No name  no handwriting  but a thumbprint pressed into the page like a full stop.