One

At dusk, Cal watches rooks feed in his back garden and reflects on his new life renovating a derelict Irish house. He appreciates the landscape, the hard work, and the proof of change in his aches and calluses. He notes the house’s condition and his methodical repairs, finding satisfaction in progress.

Over recent days, Cal has felt watched. Initially blaming animals or boredom, he recalls a trained cop’s instinct flaring during music-filled evenings and the rooks’ alarms. He weighs local dynamics—neighbor Mart’s easy illegality jokes, Noreen’s helpfulness, and intricate rural grudges—realizing how easily a stranger could misstep.

Wary of igniting trouble, he avoids cameras or tripwires and instead spreads fine soil beneath his windows as a low-key alarm. Twice it shows nothing; then fresh sneaker prints appear beneath the living-room window. Cal suspects kids, but the methodical quiet unnerves him.

That night, hearing a faint scramble outside, Cal exits silently through the bathroom window, pipe in hand. He spots a crouched figure at the sill and charges. The intruder proves to be a small, silent boy. When Cal grabs him, the boy bites hard enough to draw blood and bolts through the hedges, vanishing.

After disinfecting the wound, Cal eats in the dim kitchen, unsettled. The encounter lacks the noisy bravado of teen pranks; the boy’s patience and ferocity signal purpose. Cal concludes this isn’t over and prepares himself for the kid to return.