Tom had gone to considerable lengths to arrange the meeting. The reservation was made in the most exclusive hotel in Dublin, a gleaming sanctuary above the city's rain-swept streets. The private room in the executive wing was a cocoon of quiet luxury: a thick carpet, mahogany table, a view that swept from the silver thread of the River Liffey to the green hills beyond. It was a place built to keep secrets safe. Shane arrived well before the appointed hour, his nerves a storm beneath his skin. He paced the corridor, replaying old wounds and uncertain hopes. Dublin had always felt both home and hostile to him.
As a mixed-race son in a city slow to accept difference, he'd learned how quickly warmth could turn to frost. Even now, at the age of nineteen, the scars of taunts and isolation ran deep. He pressed a hand to the cool glass, steadying himself, remembering his father's words—Hold on, son. Holding on is what we Gallaghers do best. His father, Noel Gallagher, was a legend of contradictions. When sober, his laughter could fill a room; when drunk, that same room shrank with fear. He had been a chef of rare talent, his meals a love language, but his love for Shane's mother, Phoebe, was greater still. She was his reason and his ruin a compulsion and an addiction that he had never been able to overcome. Alcohol had robbed him of work, dignity and slowly, of life itself. Before his death, he'd found hope in the rhythm of AA meetings and small tokens of redemption, but fate had other plans. He died suddenly, leaving Shane to care for a mother haunted by loss—the loss of a son she rarely spoke of, the loss of a man she couldn't save. Phoebe carried her secrets like stones in her pockets.
She rarely let them slip, but sometimes, in the hush of night, Shane would catch her staring into the darkness, her lips moving in silent apology. He suspected then that her pain echoed his—echoed and amplified it. The clock ticked toward the appointed hour. Then, with a soft click, the door opened. In strode Tom, composed as ever, with Simon trailing behind, his face tight with uncertainty. Shane's breath hitched. For a charged moment no one moved. Then, driven by a force deeper than words, Shane surged across the carpet and flung himself into Simon's arms. The hug was desperate, liberating and raw. Tears broke loose. "I am not alone anymore," Shane choked out, his voice thin with hope and disbelief. Simon held his brother, awkward at first, then with growing strength. "Easy," he said, but his own voice trembled. "We've got time now." "I'm afraid that if I let go, you'll vanish," Shane admitted, clinging tighter. "You don't know what it's been like, these nineteen years." Tom cleared his throat, gently steering them to the table.
"Let's sit. There's much to talk about." Shane turned to Tom, gratitude blazing in his eyes. "I know you. My mother told me what you did for her. Thank you. There were nights when I feared I'd lose her too, but she said it was your kindness that kept her afloat." Simon felt Shane's gaze heavy on him and shifted in his chair, uneasy under the scrutiny. "Why are you staring?" he finally asked, forcing a wan smile to flicker across his lips. "When my mother thought she might die, she made me promise never to stop looking for you. Now you're here. It's a blessing I never dared to hope for." Simon let out a quivering breath. "All I know is that she left me at a bus stop when I was a day old. I've never had answers. Maybe you do." Shane opened his mouth to speak—and the door swung open.
A waiter entered, carrying a tray of coffee and pastries. But before he could set it down, a loud crash came from the hallway: shouts, the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. The waiter paled, mumbling apologies, as two security guards rushed past the open door, their radios crackling. Tom rose, feeling tense. "Something's wrong." Suddenly, in the confusion, a young woman burst into the room. Her face was streaked with tears, her voice frantic. Shane recognised her immediately—Aoife, a fellow student from his university, although they'd never been more than acquaintances. She darted a panicked look at all three men. "Shane Gallagher?" she blurted out, her eyes wide. Shane stood, baffled. "Yes—Aoife? What are you doing here?" Aoife's gaze bounced from Shane to Tom, then to Simon, and back again.
"I'm…" she started, but her words stumbled. Tom's presence was suddenly commanding; he stepped forward, his voice low and sharp. "Who sent you?" Tom demanded, his eyes locked onto hers. He didn't raise his voice, but the authority in it was enough to make Aoife freeze. "I—I…" she stammered, hands trembling. Tom stepped closer, eyes drilling into her. "Why are you really here, Aoife? Who put you up to this?" Under his scrutiny, Aoife's resolve crumbled. "I'm sorry," she whispered, shaking. "A man approached me—he paid me to come here, to interrupt you. I don't know who he is, I swear. He just told me to make sure that you didn't get through your meeting." The security guards, hearing the confession, moved quickly to detain her. One gently but firmly took her arm, the other spoke quietly into his radio to summon the police. Tom watched Aoife with a mixture of pity and suspicion.
"You realise that this is a serious matter?" he said quietly. Aoife nodded, her eyes brimming with guilt and fear. The room was thick with tension. As the guards waited with Aoife in the hallway, Tom closed the door and returned to the table. Simon and Shane exchanged bewildered looks, the threat of an unseen adversary now hanging in the air, turning their long-awaited reunion into something more dangerous — and more urgent — than they could have imagined.