I try not to look back.
But there it is—my old home, burning down as the riots consume it.
Balls of fire arc into the sky.Pillars of smoke twist like black serpents.The roar of the crowd still rings in my ears, even out here,on the boat drifting farther and farther from the familiar shores of Northern Ireland.
I watch as it shrinks into the mist and rain—the row houses, the gas station, the chapel with its empty bell tower.All of it fading into smoke.
"There goes my old life," I say, somberly.
Dad gives a short grunt, barely looking up from his coat as he shields a cigarette from the wind.
"Ah, don't worry about it," he mutters. "We've a new home waiting for us in Doncaster. You'll have a great time with your relatives there. Real cheap, too, for such a big house. You'll finally get that bigger room you always wanted."
Mom's standing by the railing, her thin jacket fluttering in the breeze.Her voice cuts gently through the sound of the ferry's engine.
"But first," she adds, "while the house is being repainted, I've booked us at a nice vacation spot. Drumolchart Holiday Park. Maybe you'll meet some new friends there—it has a lot of tourists."
Her Cantonese accent wraps every syllable with the kind of forced optimism that only a mother can weaponize.
"It's the perfect place for a social butterfly like you. Lots of different faces!"
"Yeh," I reply, not that enthusiastic about it.
Making friends was hard in Northern Ireland.Being mixed and all.
Not really the type who had much in common with the locals—or the foreigners.
Half Hong Kong Cantonese from Mum's side,half Welsh and something called Strathclyde from Dad's.
I had never even heard of Strathclyde before he mentioned it.
Apparently, it was supposed to be the old "very northern Celtic Britons"—not quite Irish, not quite Scottish,its own thing.
Lost to time. I can't imagine how many cultures must have quietly disappeared like that—faded into memory, absorbed into something larger until their names are just footnotes, their languages forgotten, their stories buried beneath a flag or a border. And if I'm honest, I feel a kind of guilt, knowing I'm part of that dilution. A small part, maybe, but still a drop in the tide that wears away the edge of something once distinct.
Still... there's something precious in being close to it. In hearing Dad talk about Strathclyde not like a chapter in a history book, but like a living thing—a birthright, a spirit, something you carry in your bones even when the world forgets its name. It makes me feel special, in a quiet, crooked way. A small consolation prize for feeling like I don't belong anywhere else.
Maybe that's the tradeoff. I don't have a place that's just mine, but I get to hold the ghost of one. And I've promised myself—sworn to myself, even if I never said it out loud—that I'll be a good shepherd to what remains of it. I'll remember. I'll keep it close to my heart.
As we approached the coast, the soft morning fog was pierced by the glowing eye of the Corsewall Lighthouse, now converted into a restaurant and hotel. We weren't going there, which was a shame—I'd been hoping to visit my old friend who moved to a place near Dundream, all wind-swept cliffs and open fields with a panoramic view of the sea.
Instead, the boat eased into the sleepy port of Cairnryan, docking at the P & O Ferry station. It looked like other families had the same idea as us—escaping before things got worse. Many looked more disheveled, like they'd left in a hurry. Teenagers my age stood in clumps, muttering complaints to their mothers about leaving their friends behind, while others sounded more shaken, whispering things like "Where will we go now?" and "We lost everything."
A mixed crowd—other immigrants, some locals, and a few weary-looking Brits. I overheard a man talking angrily to someone on the phone about how "an Irish lad threw a Molotov into our shop," and how they decided they "just couldn't stay in Ireland anymore."
The boat rocked slightly as the deckhands and port workers moved into place, hooking the vessel to the ramp with practiced ease. The ferry's gates creaked open. People began to pack up, haul luggage, corral children, and disembark. Not a word was exchanged between families—just the shared understanding that everything was different now.
Soon, we were standing at the station, waiting for our car to be brought around. Dad was off hunting for breakfast, caught in an amusingly indecisive battle between two street vendors—one offering shawarma, the other curry. They'd gotten into a full-blown argument over who made the better deal, shouting and waving ladles. Dad still hadn't made up his mind.
Mom stood beside me, phone in hand, quietly studying a map. She muttered something in her obvious Cantonese accent about needing to call one of her and Dad's old friends from university—a business associate who had helped us with our paperwork. She said their family was waiting in Stranraer, and together we'd drive to Drumlochart Holiday Park, where we'd be staying while the new house in Doncaster was being repainted.
Apparently, it was a "company-paid vacation" of sorts.
I didn't say much. I just stared at the ocean.
I couldn't even see my old home anymore—not even a hint of it through the mist. It was gone. Like a dream after waking. And yet I could still feel it. I could still hear the echo of the fire, the crack of glass breaking, the shouting in the streets. It rang in my ears louder than the seagulls or the motor of the boat still cooling down behind us.
I felt... more out of place than I ever had in my entire life.
Which is saying something.
Because I've always felt that way.
But now—even more so.
I slipped my old 2000s iPod from my coat pocket and jammed in the earbuds. The scratchy opening chords of My Chemical Romance filled my ears, that familiar thrum of teenage angst flooding my chest like warm oil. I stared out at the choppy water, the waves tumbling against the dock as the breeze sighed softly over the wet concrete. The sky, overcast and pale, seemed to reflect exactly how I felt inside—gray, directionless, undone.
I felt the pangs of sadness eat away at my soul...
And the wind and sea sounded like everything falling apart.
Just like my life-
BUMP.
I stumbled forward as someone collided into my back. My earbuds popped loose, the music sputtering into the rain.
"I SHALL SMITE THEE, THOT!" a boy's voice screeched behind me. "With this REVOLTING CREATURE!"
"What the—"
"DAMN IT, CARL!" a girl shouted, her voice a sharp, nasal shriek like an angry gull. "Stop chasing me!"
I turned, blinking rain from my lashes.
I looked over just in time to see a boy probably a year younger then me—swinging a dead fish in one hand like a flail of divine justice. His target? A girl also about my age maybe older, shrieking as she stumbled backward, ducking and flailing her arms.
I clutched my coat and steadied myself, glaring.
"HEY."
They didn't hear me.
I yanked my earbuds down.
"HEY! I'm busy resonating on the destruction of everything I have ever known and held dear," I said sharply. "And your YAPPIN' is fucking ruining it."
The girl skidded to a halt and stared at me.
Carl froze mid-fish-swing.
The wind tugged at my coat. My music crackled faintly from the dangling headphones.
I glared at them with all the brooding intensity I could summon.
The girl squinted at me, unimpressed.
"…Jeez," she muttered. "Okay, Edgar Allan Poe."
Just then, my dad strolled up, holding two steaming takeaway containers in one hand and a paper bag of extras in the other. His raincoat flapped in the breeze, and the scent of curry and garlic clung to him like perfume.
"Oh hey, look at that," he said, grinning. "You've already met! Pike, these are our travel companions. They're coming with us to Stranraer—and we're picking someone else up along the way. Funny thing, we bumped into each other here of all places. They'd just got back down from Castlebay scotland."
I squinted at the girl, then back to my dad. "Why didn't they just drive down?" I asked, still frowning. "Why take a ferry?"
The girl crossed her arms and tilted her head, lips twisting into a smug little smile. "Uh, because Castlebay is on an island, you fucking dork. Last I checked, cars can't go underwater. Idiot."
I blinked slowly. Then I turned to her and said flatly, "Shut the fuck up. Don't interrupt me when I'm talking to my dad."
Her younger brother—Carl, I assumed—let out a delighted gasp. "Wow, you hate her already! We're gonna be goooood friends," he said, grinning like a goblin. He thrust out a hand. "Hi, my name's Carl. I'm the future lord of some nowhere estate. It's pretty cool."
He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering in a stage-loud voice, "Oh, and this is my adopted sister. My dad really likes Arabs. Probably 'cause the divorce messed with his brain's ability to make good decisions."
The girl's face turned red instantly. "SCREW YOU, CARL. Dad loves me just as much as you—if not more. You're a fucking failure. You failed all your online classes because you were too busy playing Minecraft and didn't notice the Zoom call was still on while your base got raided by a YouTuber!"
Carl's eyes widened in dramatic horror. "Stop rubbing in my defeat, WENCH!"
They began arguing in full force, hurling insults like medieval curses. My dad handed me one of the curry boxes with a sigh, glancing between the two of them.
"They've been at it all morning according to the staff," he said under his breath. "They remind me of my brothers."
I took the food, still watching the chaos. "They remind me of why I hate people."
"Come on," Dad chuckled. "You'll get used to them. We've got a long car ride ahead. Best make peace before we hit Dumfries."
"I'm not making peace with either of them," I muttered, pulling my hood tighter. "I already regret being here."
My mother called from across the station platform, waving her phone in one hand. "We are ready! We go soon—ten minutes, okay? Be quick with food! I want to see the sea cows!"
"…You mean seals," I corrected instinctively.
She ignored me and walked off toward the parking area, humming.
The girl climbed into the backseat without a word, settling in beside me. It was an old vintage car—leather seats creaking with age, a faint smell of tobacco and rain-damp upholstery lingering like a ghost from the '80s. My mom and dad were already seated up front, Mom flipping through a road map she didn't really need, Dad fiddling with the keys and muttering something about low oil pressure.
I glanced sideways. "Uh… where are your parents?" I asked the girl.
She looked at me like I'd just tried to eat a rock.
"Ugh, we can travel by ourselves. Our dad's very busy," she said, like I was stupid for even asking.
Her brother piped up helpfully from the other side, already digging out a phone charger. "Yeah, our dad's always busy. That's why we're super independent and, like, totally responsible."
"Yeah, right," I muttered, rolling my eyes. "If I were your dad, I wouldn't let two teenagers wander around England in this day and age. Not with all the crime and psychos crawling out of the gutters."
My dad chuckled as he buckled his seatbelt. "See that, Inayah? Pike's got paternal instincts. He's a natural protector."
Inayah turned away from me, arms crossed, face tight with disdain. "I appreciate your concern," she said, every syllable dipped in sarcasm, "but I don't need a chaperone to nanny me."
Carl snorted. "Shut up, bitch, yes you do. I'm literally right here. I'd love to see that same attitude when we're walking through the Arabic neighborhood with your scarf down."
Inayah snapped, "Shut up, infidel."
My dad turned the key in the ignition, the engine coughing to life like an old dog clearing its throat. He smiled in the rearview mirror.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "it's going to be a long ride. So get comfortable, Pike."
Carl was already slouched against the window, untangling his earbuds. "I'm gonna watch my favorite streamer—PoopShit69. He's doing a speedrun of Skyrim while eating raw onions."
I blinked. "That's… horrifying."
"That's art," Carl replied solemnly.