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“How did you get out?” I ask and am met with a blank stare. I head over to the paddock to find the gate open, the latch stuck in the unlocked position. I could have sworn I’d shut this properly before heading off to work.

Sighing, I rub the back of my neck, heading into the house to change out of my trainers and into a pair of old wellie boots. Then I move around the property, herding the ewes back into their paddock. I check on my two Miniature Nubian goats, Applesauce and Rhubarb, who are climbing on wooden planks in their stable. They hop over to greet me when I walk in and I reach down and pat them both. Applesauce bleats loudly and tries to follow me out of the barn, but I hold her back as I shut the door.

I’m sweating by the time I’m done tending to the farm, and though I hate the thought of another cold shower, I hate the dirt and sweat sticking to my skin even more. I’m in and out in a flash, drying off and then pulling on a pair of cotton pyjamas. It’s early evening and I’m about to face a task I’ve been putting off – sorting through Pops’ belongings.

Grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniels from the kitchen, I walk upstairs and open the door to my grandfather’s room. It still smells like him and I have to close my eyes to stave off the building tears.

Everything is pretty much as he’d left it the morning we took the Aurora out. His shirt is hanging over the back of his desk chair. There’s a photo of my grandmother on his bedside table, where I know he could see it as he lay in bed each night. His slippers are next to his closet and there’s a closed notebook on the small table he used as a desk.

“This is hard, Pops. I wish we could go back, and undo that entire day,” I say, my heart heavy, the grief squeezing my chest. The room is silent, but in my mind I can hear his voice, encouraging me to keep my head up. He was my biggest supporter, my cheerleader and my best friend.

“Okay. Let’s do this.” I head to his chest of drawers and open the top one. It’s full of his t-shirts. I work through those quickly – putting some aside for charity and keeping a few for myself. Pops and I would buy each other wordplay and pun t-shirts for every birthday and Christmas – it was a running joke that started shortly after I moved here and he gave me a tee that had a smiling donut on the front and the words ‘rolling in dough’ printed beneath it.

With his tops sorted, I sort through more of his clothing, swigging from my bottle of Jack and fighting back tears as each item brings back memories of better days.

By the third drawer, I’ve lost track of what I’m keeping and what I’m giving away, and I’m too drained to continue. Pushing the piles of clothing aside, bottle of liquor under my arm, I pick up one of Pops’ plaid shirts and walk out, shutting the door firmly.

In my room, I take a seat on my bed, crossing my legs beneath me. My eyes fall to a photo stuck to the wall above my desk. It’s of me and my grandparents on one of the trips I took here before I left London. The picture makes my eyes burn, tears trickling down my cheeks. My grandparents had an amazing relationship. They meant everything to each other, and they were so happy here on this farm. With their animals and their lighthouse and the deep blue sea on their doorstep. They were never apart for longer than a weekend. They were best friends, partners, the loves of each other’s lives and I adored them, at times envying what they shared.

I’m so fucking lonely.

The thought makes my chest pinch, and I rub at the ache before wiping away the tears on my cheeks. I guess people would say I’m a loner and they’d be right, but I don’t think it’s a conscious choice that I made, but more like a mould I squeezed myself into.

Growing up, my parents made me feel I was too difficult and too different and somewhere along the way I started to believe that about myself, and then it became easier not to bother trying to connect with people.

Secondary school was hard because I wanted to fit in, but I didn’t like the things other kids did. I didn’t play sports, and I hated going anywhere crowded, so after a while, I stopped getting invited to games, to clubs, to parties, to any sort of social event.

As soon as I was out of London and living in Newbridge, I threw myself straight into opening Iona’s, mastering my grandmother’s recipes and creating some of my own. I didn’t make time for relationships. The few dates I went on never led anywhere – nights of small talk and empty sex with women I couldn’t connect with. If it wasn’t for Kiernan, who I’d met when I came here on holiday when I was thirteen, I’d probably have no one at all in my life now.

For so long, getting Iona’s up and running was all I cared about. It was enough, but I don’t think it is anymore. Losing Pops made me realise I don’t have anyone I can lean on, and I want that. I need that. Someone to hold my hand when I’m scared, to wipe the tears off my cheeks when I’m sad, or to laugh with when the world is nothing but sunshine.

Now, with so much on my plate – the bakery, the farm, bills upon bills, parents who don’t understand me – I wonder if I’ll have time to go out and meet someone, or if I’m going to be stuck feeling this empty and lost for the rest of my life.

A floorboard on the ground level creaks, snapping me out of my thoughts. My heart jolts, a sense of unease washing over me. There is no one else in the house and yet… creeeak. There. I hear it again. Someone passing over that old floor board that Pops and I kept saying we’d replace, but never did.

I sit as still as I can, holding my breath, fear keeping me frozen in place. It must be a trick of my imagination, because I know I’m alone here. No one else lives this far along the cove. It’s just me and the few animals on the farm, and none of them are creeping around downstairs at midnight. I look at the bottle of whiskey but shake my head. I’m not drunk. I know what I heard.

Wrapping my soft fleece blanket around my shoulders, I force myself to get off the bed. On socked feet, I tip-toe slowly out of my room and along the passageway, pausing when I reach the top of the stairs. The house is silent. With the boiler out of commission, not even the old pipes are groaning, but there is a scent in the air that I cannot place. Like salt water and moss.

I strain my eyes, looking down the stairs, but it’s too dark to make anything out. I’m just about to cross over to where the light switch is when I sense movement.

Or I think I do. I pause, and then…yes.

It is definitely there.

Motion like dust motes dancing in the shadows, followed by a tap tap on wood.

My heart races and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. The tapping gets louder, like whatever is in the darkness is climbing the stairs. I take a step back and then another until I’m flat against the wall.

“There’s nothing there. It’s all in my head,” I whisper to myself, fumbling around for the light switch.

Is it though?

Holding my breath, I turn on the light, bracing for who knows what, and startling when something furry touches my leg.

Looking down at the source, I blow out a breath and shake my head at the little black and white creature at my feet. It meows, then winds itself around my ankle.

“Fuck, cat. Are you trying to scare the shit out of me?” It flops onto its side then rolls to its back. “Where did you come from?” We’ve never had a cat here before because Pops was allergic to them. It’s thin, and a little grubby, but very friendly, like maybe once upon a time it was someone’s pet.