Against my best wishes and tightly straightened limbs, my body rattled in protest to the wintry ice of Ireland. It was quite embarrassing, truly, even if I had no witnesses to my ailment. I would not accept that my body could be weaker than my will.

I stood in the lonely churchyard, the only thing audible beside my huffed breaths the whisper of the wind and the soft sigh of snow. It may seem nonsensical that I was here, chattering away in the cold. Unfortunately for the other guests as well as myself, the electricity at the Gresham had gone out. I must say that despite my departure from the butler role, I was quite embarrassed for the workers in the hotel. I mean no insult to their honor or dignity, but shouldn’t the staff of the grandest hotel in Dublin be able to fix a problem as simple as this? Perhaps a new staff plan would be wise. 

I laughed at my foolishness. Had I learned nothing since that fateful day on the Weymouth Pier? Why, of course not– and how do I know? Well, in my meandering from the Gresham to this desolate place, I had most horrifically damaged the once-pristine cuffs of my trousers. I was certain in my changed person for the fact that I did not care one bit about the mess.

My limbs suddenly rattled rather fervently, returning my mind to the present. The snow had become increasingly cruel as the powder– thick yet light like dust I may have once dusted from portraits in a library– fell in torrents around me. My eyes became focused on the crooked grave before me– a simple, wooden cross that had long before begun to rot. I squinted at the faded text etched into the wood, which read Michael Furey. My mind wandered for a length of time– the type of wandering that leaves one with no memory of their existence for those moments– before I was abruptly startled. It was not the cold this time but rather a deep voice that crackled over a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“I beg your pardon, good sir. Perhaps you’re wondering what brings me here to this desolate spot on such a day as this,” said the stranger. The voice came from my right, and I flinched slightly to find the black-clad figure barely a few centimeters away. He did not look at me and remained steadily staring at the grave. “But our meeting here is fortuitous, perhaps, for I see that we are in similar frames of mind. I’m Gabriel Conroy.”

I turned my head ever so slightly in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Mr. Conroy’s face, but the darkness of the late day and blur of snow against his cloak kept him shrouded from my sight. I did not really know what to think of the stranger, or how to converse with him– did he expect one of those clever witticisms as some gentlemen often do? Surely not– the tone of his voice was rather grave– and if anyone could know that, it would be myself. 

Realizing the awkward silence, I decided to address him. “Most warm greetings, Mr. Conroy. I am Mr. Stevens.” I stuck out my hand, trembling slightly from the cold, to shake his. He turned his body towards me and shook my hand in a tight grip. Looking up, I finally caught a glimpse of his face and swallowed a reaction at what I witnessed. I saw a man haunted by his past as I was by mine. His skin was gray with cold or grief– I did not know.

“Oh, please, call me Gabriel,” he said as he returned his hand to his side. I smiled before protesting. “Sir, truly, I could–” 

“Please, Mr. Stevens. I have not heard the timbre of my name in quite some time.”

I smiled again, sliding my cold hands in my pockets as I did so. “Gabriel, then. A pleasure to meet you.”

He cocked his head. “I notice a different accent. Where are you from?”

“Oh, an old house near Oxfordshire. In England,” I clarified. “I was in service at Darlington Hall. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Gabriel seemed to ponder for a moment, his brow furrowed, before answering. “Yes, I used to be very interested in English affairs, despite my roots here in Ireland. People didn’t like me so much for it,” he chuckled. Did I hear a note of sadness there?

“Ah. I’m sure you had your reasons,” I remarked, not so sure of what else to say. Besides, I had been slightly busy puzzling over what the stranger meant by thinking us ‘in similar frames of mind.’ 

Gabriel suddenly turned towards my person, though I noticed he hesitated before turning his lingering gaze away from the grave before us. 

“Mr. Stevens. You seem an observant man, so I know you must wonder what I meant earlier when I said we are in similar states of mind. I know it is frigid out here and you likely have other things to tend to. But I wish to tell you a tale.” 

And a tale he did tell.

I do not plan to summarize or retell Mr. Conroy’s story because I believe it is his to tell. But I have my thoughts, and they all truly come down to one conclusion: that to look at Gabriel Conroy is to look into a mirror. It almost made me laugh. What suppressed, rotten fools we were! Breaking the spirits of those we loved only because we could not face the music. Music, yes– a highlight of Gabriel’s story. If my memory abandoned me I am confident that two things would never evade me– unless the correct description is I evading them: Miss Kenton’s face at our sorrowful goodbye and the vision of Gabriel’s wife standing, a statue in the shadows, as she heard the melody of her buried past. Buried indeed, I thought as I occasionally glanced at the poor little Michael Furey’s grave. 

It was comical how parts of Gabriel’s story brought forth bouts of rage in me that were impossible to quell. How tragically hilarious for me to find Mr. Conroy ridiculous for his loss while I was equally if not more ridiculous for mine. More ridiculous, certainly.

Mr. Conroy was quite the spectacular storyteller, though, and I found myself forgetting the knock of the cold and swirl of the wind. When he finished his tale, I found us no longer strangers but brothers– bound not by blood but instead horrific losses of our own doing.

Suppressed no more, I shuffled my frozen limbs to Gabriel as I embraced him tightly. He did not hesitate before reciprocating– a lesson we had both learned well before.

“Let’s get back to the Gresham, shall we?” I asked before offering him my arm. He chuckled his assent before we began trotting– hopefully– to the warmth and light of the hotel.

“Wait, Mr. Stevens,” Gabriel halted suddenly, turning around and walking back to the grave. He waved me over with his hand. “Assist me.”

In a joint effort, Gabriel Conroy and I straightened Michael Furey’s previously crooked cross, and for a moment the wind was still.