By William Falo

I looked at the town I loved, knowing my childhood home would soon become part of my past.

I had been chosen to go to Dublin to record an album and perform. It was the opportunity I’d dreamed about for years. In the morning, I’d take a train from Galway, but first I wanted to hear some of the local musicians I’d read about online.

I’d been lucky. After a wealthy uncle left my mother money, I’d had lessons, teachers, and mentors other singers couldn’t afford. Then an agent heard me perform and offered me a contract.

The last contract they were offering that year.

I signed it.

My mother told me to go.

She’d been lonely since my father committed suicide. Alcohol had destroyed his liver and, eventually, his mind. Leaving her alone bothered me more than I admitted, but she insisted this was my chance.

So I left.

In Galway, I visited several pubs before making one final stop — O’Connor’s, where Ed Sheeran had once filmed part of Galway Girl.

I walked inside and felt as though I’d entered someone’s crowded den. Books and household treasures filled shelves around the bar.

Then a red-haired girl stepped onto the small stage.

Her hair was braided down both sides of her face. She picked up an acoustic guitar as I ordered a Guinness.

“My name’s Fiona.”

She strummed a few chords and began singing “Wild Mountain Thyme.”

My mother’s favorite song.

Something about Fiona’s raspy voice brought tears to my eyes. I pictured Mum sitting home alone and wondered how long it would be before I saw her again.

Fiona moved through several Irish classics before singing her own songs.

That’s when everything changed.

Her lyrics were raw, intimate, painful. They weren’t just songs. They were pieces of her life.

And they were better than mine.

That hurt.

But what hurt more was looking around the pub. Everyone had gone quiet. A woman wiped tears from her eyes. A man stared into his drink.

I’d never made an audience feel like this.

When Fiona announced a break, I slipped outside and leaned against the wall.

I’d spent my childhood being bullied because I was small and terrible at sports. Music became the place where I could matter.

But standing outside that pub, I wondered if my music had ever mattered to anyone the way Fiona’s did.

The door opened.

Fiona stepped outside and lit a cigarette.

“Want one?”

“No thanks. You shouldn’t either. It’ll ruin your voice.”

She laughed. “I know. I’m Fiona, by the way.”

“Tom. And you’re amazing.”

“Nah. Average.”

“I know someone in Dublin. I’m going to tell him about you.”

Her expression changed.

“Listen, Tom. I’m tired of disappointment and guys making promises. Don’t promise something you can’t deliver. Girls don’t like that.”

She crushed the cigarette beneath her shoe.

“I’m sorry.”

“No worries. Good luck in Dublin.”

She handed me a card with her Instagram information and disappeared inside.

I started to follow her.

Instead, I pulled out my phone.

“Ed, I’m not coming.”

“What? I need you. I promised the producers a new artist.”

“I found you one.”

“Don’t blow this chance, Tom.”

“Just listen.”

I opened the door and held my phone inside while Fiona sang one of her original ballads.

When it ended, I put the phone back to my ear.

“Well?”

“She’s good,” Ed said. “We can use a female singer.”

“I told you.”

“Send me her information. But understand something—if she gets the opportunity, you’re out.”

Through the doorway, I watched Fiona sing.

“Understood.”

I put my train ticket into an envelope along with some money and Ed’s number. Then I dropped it into Fiona’s tip box and walked away before she could see me.

An Irish goodbye.

When I arrived home, Mum stared at me.

Then she threw her arms around me.

“I think I’ll play locally,” I told her. “Maybe become an agent.”

She shook her head, but I saw the relief in her eyes.

She wouldn’t be alone.

                                           Six Months Later

One night, while searching YouTube for new musicians, I saw a familiar face.

Fiona.

One of her videos had gone viral. She was recording and preparing for a European tour.

I watched every video I could find.

When one ended, I realized a tear had fallen onto my desk.

Giving away my chance hadn’t ended my career. Because I’d discovered Fiona, I’d been hired as a talent scout. I still performed occasionally, but I’d discovered something I loved more.

Finding people who deserved to be heard.

That night, I went to a pub to watch a young singer.

He was good.

But good wasn’t enough anymore.

Fiona had taught me what I was looking for—that rare moment when a room became silent because everyone felt the same thing.

I headed toward the door.

Someone tapped my shoulder.

I turned.

Red hair.

Fiona.

“I quit smoking,” she said.

I smiled. “That’s great.”

She suddenly wrapped her arms around me so tightly I could barely breathe.

I didn’t know what to say.

Finally, I managed, “I should get home. My mother’s making dinner.”

Fiona pulled back and looked into my eyes.

“No, Tom. No Irish goodbye this time.”

She smiled.

“Call your mum and tell her your girlfriend is coming to dinner.”

Before I could answer, she kissed me.

Then we walked out of the pub together.

This time, there was no Irish goodbye.

                                                   

                                                             *   *   *

William Falo lives with his family, including a papillon named Dax. His stories have been published or are forthcoming in various literary journals. He can be found on X @williamfalo, Bluesky @williamfalowriter027.bsky.social @ WilliamFaloand Instagram @william_falo.