Aisling’s world was Howth. She’d grown up haulin’ nets with her da, who taught her the tides before he died, leavin’ her a battered boat and debts. The village, with its fishy pier and the castle’s crumblin’ towers, was changin’—tourists packin’ the Crabby Joe’s pub, fish vanishin’ from the sea. The journal was a jolt. Padraig’s words were desperate: “Her song saves ships, but she took my voice. Now she wants my heart.” Aisling read by candlelight in her cottage on Church Street, the sea roarin’ outside. The mermaid, he wrote, was ancient, tied to Celtic lore, her voice woven into Howth’s cliffs. Aisling didn’t buy myths, but the song came again, pullin’ her to the pier’s edge.

She explored the Baily Lighthouse, a white tower battered by storms. Climbin’ its spiral stairs, she found old logs in a dusty room, confirmin’ Padraig’s story—ships stopped wreckin’ in ’92, but he went silent, then vanished. Locals at the Bloody Stream pub whispered of a mermaid’s curse, tied to a shipwreck off Howth Head. Aisling walked the pier, the wind carryin’ that song, now louder, like a plea. She visited Howth Castle, its ruins draped in ivy, findin’ a carving in the stone—a woman with fish scales. An old fisherman, Mick, told her over a pint: “Padraig loved the sea too much. She took him for it.” Aisling’s nets stayed empty, and the song grew, wakin’ her at night.

She dug deeper. At the Howth Maritime Museum, she found records of the Star of Erin, a ship that sank in 1892, losin’ all hands. Padraig’s journal hinted he’d failed to save it, breakin’ his deal. The mermaid’s song was a lure, not a gift, pullin’ keepers to the deep. Aisling walked Claremont Beach, the cliffs loomin’ dark. One night, the song led her to a cave near the lighthouse, waves crashin’ inside. There, in the damp, she found a locket—Padraig’s, with a scale inside, glintin’ like moonlight. The song swelled, and a figure appeared in the water—hair like kelp, eyes endless. “Give me your voice,” she sang. Aisling, heart poundin’, clutched the locket.

She ran, the song chasin’ her through Howth’s streets, past the Abbey Tavern and St. Mary’s Church. Mick told her the truth: Padraig gave his heart, not just his voice, drownin’ to appease her. Aisling’s boat was sinkin’, her life with it. She could give in—join the mermaid, save her livelihood. But at dawn, standin’ on the cliffs, she threw the locket into the sea. The song stopped, the air still. Her nets filled the next day, a miracle or coincidence. The cliffs stayed quiet, but Aisling knew the mermaid was watchin’.