Alice in Wonderland diary, 9th November 2026
Tag Archives: ballykillduff
The Tumblewink of Ballykillduff
The Tumblewink of Ballykillduff
It began, as such things often do, with something so small that no one thought it worth mentioning.
Mrs O’Doolin’s teacups.
They had always hung in a neat and sensible row beside the dresser—handle to the right, pattern facing outward, each one minding its own business in a most respectable fashion.
Until one Tuesday morning (or what strongly insisted it was Tuesday), she found them all facing the wall.
Not broken.
Not fallen.
Simply… turned.
“Well now,” she said, after a pause long enough to consider the matter properly, “that’s not how cups behave.”
By the time the village had gathered its thoughts (which took longer than usual, as several of them had gone slightly missing), other things had begun to occur.
Mr Hanrahan at the signal box discovered that the 9:15 had arrived at 9:15… but from tomorrow.
Jimmy McGroggan insisted his ladder now had one extra rung, though no one could agree where it had come from.
And the sheep—always a reliable measure of reality in Ballykillduff—had arranged themselves in a neat row that appeared, upon closer inspection, to be alphabetical.
No one knew quite how sheep managed such a thing.
Least of all the sheep.
It was Alice who noticed it first.
Not the changes.
Those were everywhere.
No—she noticed the feeling.
That quiet, delicate sense that something had just passed by… not loudly, not boldly, but sideways, as though it had slipped between one moment and the next without troubling either.
She was standing by the hedgerow when she saw it.
At first, it looked like nothing at all.
Then like a scrap of ribbon.
Then like a small, glowing tangle of things that did not entirely agree on what they were.
It drifted—not forward, not back—but slightly aside.
And as it passed a fallen leaf, the leaf stood up straight.
The twig beside it, however, forgot what it was for.
“You must be a Tumblewink,” said Alice, quite calmly.
The creature did not answer.
But something about it… smiled.
Not with a mouth, exactly.
More with the idea of a smile.
Alice stepped closer.
“You’ve been tidying,” she said.
The Tumblewink shimmered.
A button appeared where there had been none before, then vanished again as though it had remembered it belonged elsewhere.
“Yes,” Alice continued, “but not quite properly.”
At this, the Tumblewink gave a small, pleased sort of flicker.
They walked together then—if walked is the correct word for something that moved by gently disagreeing with where it had just been.
Everywhere it passed, things improved… and did not.
A crooked fence straightened itself, while the ground beneath it shifted just enough to make it unnecessary.
A lost glove reappeared—on the wrong hand, worn by someone who did not remember owning it.
A sentence begun by Mrs Fitzgerald—
“I always thought that perhaps—”
—finished itself somewhere else entirely, inside Mr Hanrahan’s head, who responded aloud with,
“—it was the teapot all along.”
No one questioned this.
“Why do you do it?” Alice asked at last.
The Tumblewink paused.
For a moment, it became very still—so still that it almost became nothing.
Then, quite gently, it rearranged the air.
Alice felt it rather than heard it:
Because finished things cannot wander.
They stood in silence.
In the distance, a sheep tried to remember whether it was before or after another sheep and decided it rather preferred not to choose.
Alice looked about her.
Nothing was quite right.
But nothing was quite wrong either.
And somehow… the world felt wider for it.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
The Tumblewink flickered.
For just a moment, it gathered itself into something almost clear—a small, warm shape, like a memory that had not yet decided to fade.
Then it drifted.
Not away.
Not toward.
But between.
The next morning, the teacups were facing outward again.
The clock told the correct time.
The sheep had returned to their usual and entirely disorganised ways.
Everything, it seemed, had been put back as it ought.
And yet…
Mrs O’Doolin would later insist that her favourite cup felt warmer than the others, though she could not say why.
Mr Hanrahan occasionally answered questions no one had asked.
And Alice—
Alice sometimes found herself pausing mid-step, certain—quite certain—that she had just missed something important.
Something small.
Something warm.
Something that had been there…
just before it wasn’t.
And if, on certain quiet evenings in Ballykillduff, a thought goes slightly astray, or a moment feels just a touch unfinished—
no one worries overmuch.
They simply smile,
and leave things… almost as they are.
Because somewhere nearby,
a Tumblewink is still at work.
4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.
4th March 2026 — The Day the Wind Practised Speaking.
*********************
The morning in Ballykillduff began in a most unremarkable fashion.
Clouds sat politely above the village like sheep that had climbed the wrong hill.
The air smelled faintly of rain.
The air smelled faintly of rain.
Mrs Murphy opened her shop door at exactly nine o’clock and immediately noticed something peculiar.
The wind was trying words.
Not full words, mind you — that would have been far too advanced for a Wednesday morning — but syllables.
At first it only whispered things like:
“Ba…”
“Lli…”
“Kil…”
“Lli…”
“Kil…”
By half past nine it had progressed to:
“Bal…ly…kill…”
And by ten o’clock the wind was confidently circling the village square announcing:
“Bally…kill…duff!”
Old Seamus at the bench beside the fountain looked up and nodded.
“Good,” he said. “It’s practising.”
The First Witness
Alice, who had arrived earlier than usual that morning, stood beside the cream-and-green telephone box (which, as everyone knows, is where unusual things tend to gather).
She listened carefully.
“Is the wind learning Irish?” she asked.
Seamus shrugged.
“It tries every spring.”
Developments by Midday
By lunchtime the wind had grown ambitious.
It began testing longer phrases:
“Dia… duit…”
A dog barked politely in response.
Then the wind attempted something very complicated indeed:
“Dia duit, Ballykillduff!”
Half the bunting outside the Giddy Goat pub applauded.
The Village Reacts
Reactions were mixed.
• Mrs Murphy said the wind had excellent pronunciation.
• Father O’Rourke said it might be a sign of cultural revival.
• Jimmy McGroggan tried to build a Wind-Translation Machine, but it translated everything as “sausages.”
• Father O’Rourke said it might be a sign of cultural revival.
• Jimmy McGroggan tried to build a Wind-Translation Machine, but it translated everything as “sausages.”
Alice simply listened.
Late Afternoon
Toward evening the wind slowed slightly, as if tired from its lessons.
It drifted across the square one last time and said, rather proudly:
“Dia duit… Ballykillduff.”
Then it went quiet again.
The Only Question Remaining
Alice looked up at the clouds.
“Do you think it will remember tomorrow?” she asked.
Seamus considered this carefully.
“Oh yes,” he said.
“The wind always remembers.”
He paused.
“It’s the village that sometimes forgets.”
The Day the Frost Blinked
February 25th, 2026 — The Day the Frost Blinked
The frost arrived late.
It did not settle in the night as frost properly should, but wandered into Ballykillduff sometime after breakfast, looking faintly apologetic and extremely decorative.
Alice noticed it first on the gate.
At precisely eleven minutes past ten, the iron latch glittered.
At twelve minutes past ten, it stopped.
At thirteen minutes past ten, it glittered again.
“It’s blinking,” Alice said calmly, which is the sort of thing one must say calmly if one wishes to be believed.
The frost had begun appearing and disappearing in polite intervals — hedge, path, rooftop, sheep — as though winter were reconsidering its position.
Alice stepped into the square. Each time the frost shimmered into existence, the air grew crisp and silver; each time it vanished, the village returned to its damp February self.
“Make up your mind,” she advised the sky.
The sky, which had been undecided all month, hesitated once more — and then, with a soft sigh, allowed the frost to remain.
Not thick.
Not harsh.
Just enough to turn the puddles into mirrors.
Alice looked down and saw not her reflection, but a faint suggestion of spring standing just behind her shoulder.
“Ah,” she said.
The frost did not blink again.
And somewhere beneath the quiet silver crust of February 25th, something green made up its mind to begin.
February 25th, 2026 — The Hat That Refused to Thaw
The frost had only just decided to behave itself in Ballykillduff when the sky coughed politely and produced a hat.
Not a rabbit.
Not a teacup.
Just a hat.
It fell with dignity, landed upright in the square, and waited.
Alice, who had already negotiated with blinking frost that morning, approached it cautiously.
The hat cleared its throat.
A moment later, the Mad Hatter unfolded himself out of it as though he had merely been stored there for convenience.
“Good morning!” he cried. “I’ve come for the Thawing!”
“We are not thawing,” Alice said firmly. “We are gently transitioning.”
“Ah,” said the Hatter, peering at the frost. “A hesitant season. Very dangerous. They tend to wobble.”
He removed a small silver teaspoon from his sleeve and began tapping the frost on the cobbles.
Ping.
A patch melted.
Ping.
A daisy appeared.
Ping.
A sheep sneezed and turned very briefly pink.
Alice caught his wrist before he could strike again.
“We’ve only just persuaded February to sit still,” she said. “If you start stirring it, we shall have daffodils arguing with snowflakes.”
The Hatter considered this gravely.
“Yes,” he agreed. “They never agree on colours.”
He placed the spoon back into his sleeve, stamped his hat once (which caused three crocuses to pop up apologetically), and looked at Alice with unusual sincerity.
“Very well. No mischief. Only observation.”
They stood together in the soft silver light, watching the frost hold its breath and spring wait its turn.
After several whole minutes of remarkable good behaviour, the Hatter leaned closer.
“Between ourselves,” he whispered, “March is terribly impatient.”
Then he folded neatly back into his hat.
The hat tipped itself.
And vanished.
The frost did not blink.
But somewhere beneath the cobbles, something giggled.
The fire crackled merrily in the hearth
The fire crackled merrily in the hearth of the Ballykillduff cottage, casting dancing shadows on the low-beamed ceiling. Outside, a full moon bathed the frosty fields in a soft, silvery glow, the silent world blanketed in fresh snow. But inside, it was warmth and comfort, a cocoon against the winter’s bite.
Seamus, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, carefully mended a fishing net, his movements slow but precise, honed by years of patient work. Across the small wooden table, Maeve’s needles clicked a gentle rhythm, weaving strands of wool into a new blanket, her hands as nimble as they had been sixty years ago, though now a little gnarled by time. Between them, a steaming teapot promised another cup, and the scent of freshly baked soda bread filled the air.
Their old dog, Finn, lay curled by the fireside, dreaming canine dreams, his occasional whimper a soft counterpoint to the quiet hum of the room. On the mantelpiece, faded photographs smiled down—their children as babes, their wedding day, a generation of memories captured in sepia tones. Above the mantel, a painting of a summer harvest, vibrant and golden, was a window to another time, a vivid echo of the image we just created.
“Remember that harvest, Maeve?” Seamus murmured, his voice soft, not breaking the peace but enriching it. “The year young Michael nearly tipped O’Malley’s wagon, trying to show off.”
Maeve chuckled, a warm sound that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “And your father nearly had a fit! You were always one for teasing, Seamus Finnegan.”
He smiled, a gentle warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the fire. “We worked hard, didn’t we? But there was always laughter, always a song.”
Maeve nodded, her gaze drifting to the moonlit window. “And those nights, after the fields were cleared, the whole village would gather. Music, dancing… you’d try to get me to dance, always with two left feet.”
“I did my best!” Seamus protested playfully, a twinkle in his eye.
The conversation faded again into comfortable silence, punctuated by the fire’s gentle roar and the rhythmic click of Maeve’s needles. They didn’t need many words; decades of shared life, of triumphs and sorrows, of sun-drenched harvests and snow-kissed evenings, had woven a tapestry of understanding between them. Each glance, each shared sigh, spoke volumes. This cozy winter evening wasn’t just a moment in time; it was a distillation of all the moments before, a quiet, contented testament to a lifetime of love lived simply, deeply, in the heart of Ballykillduff. The past wasn’t gone; it was right here, in the warmth of the fire, the scent of the bread, and the steadfast love that glowed between them, bright as the winter moon.
The Man Who Didn’t Argue with the Rain
By the fourth week of rain, Ballykillduff stopped pretending it was temporary.
The first week had been called unfortunate. The second was concerning. By the third, people were beginning to mutter phrases like biblical and I don’t remember it ever being this wet, which in Ballykillduff was the traditional signal that something had gone deeply wrong with reality.
Jimmy McGrogan noticed it on a Tuesday.
Not the rain itself—everyone noticed that—but the way it behaved. Rain usually arrived with a bit of manners. It fell, it soaked, it left. This rain had moved in. It lingered. It leaned against doorframes. It watched through windows. It fell at angles rain had no right to fall at, drifting sideways, upwards occasionally, as though unsure which way gravity was supposed to be working that week.
Jimmy stood in his yard, rain dripping off the brim of his cap, watching the river swell until it looked less like a river and more like a decision someone had made in a panic.
“That’s not stopping,” he said aloud.
This was important, because Jimmy McGrogan was not a man given to exaggeration. When Jimmy said something wasn’t stopping, it usually meant it had already passed reasonable and was heading briskly toward legend.
By Wednesday morning, the chickens were refusing to come out of the shed, the dog was sulking under the stairs, and the postman had taken to delivering letters by throwing them vaguely in the direction of houses and hoping for the best.
That was when Jimmy began measuring.
No one noticed at first. Ballykillduff had learned long ago that noticing Jimmy McGrogan too early only made things worse. He paced the length of his field with a tape measure and a look of grim concentration. He made notes on the backs of old envelopes. He stared at the sky, nodded once, and went inside to make tea so strong it could have removed paint.
On Thursday, he bought timber.
“Doing repairs?” asked Mrs. Donnelly in the hardware shop.
“Something like that,” said Jimmy.
On Friday, the shape became unmistakable.
It was an arc. Not a curve, not a suggestion—an unmistakable, deliberate arc, rising from the soaked earth behind Jimmy’s house like an idea that had finally committed to itself. By Saturday afternoon, half the village was standing at the hedge, umbrellas sagging, watching him work.
“Is that…?” someone began.
“Yes,” said Jimmy, without looking up.
“But—”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Jimmy drove a nail home with unnecessary emphasis.
By Sunday, the rain intensified, as though offended.
The river spilled over its banks. The lower lane disappeared entirely, leaving only the tops of familiar signposts sticking out like accusations. A cow appeared in O’Flaherty’s yard, confused but polite. The church steps developed a small waterfall, which Father Keane insisted on blessing, just in case.
And Jimmy McGrogan kept building.
By the time the arc was finished, it was enormous—solid timber ribs, sealed seams, a roof sloping just enough to argue with the rain instead of surrendering to it. A door wide enough for decisions. A ramp thoughtfully added, “for anything with opinions,” Jimmy explained.
“What exactly do you think is going to happen?” asked Mrs. Donnelly.
Jimmy wiped his hands on his trousers and looked out across Ballykillduff, now shimmering with water and reflection.
“I don’t think,” he said. “I’ve checked.”
That night, the rain reached a pitch it had been working toward all along.
It fell with purpose. With memory.
People woke to water at their doorsteps, then in their kitchens, then tapping politely at the stairs. And when they went outside—boots sloshing, torches bobbing—they found Jimmy already there, opening the great wooden door of the arc.
He did not shout. He did not panic.
He simply nodded and stepped aside.
By morning, Ballykillduff floated.
Not dramatically—no roaring waves, no lightning—but gently, stubbornly, as though it had decided to refuse sinking out of spite. The arc rocked slightly, tethered to what remained of the higher ground, filled with people, animals, boxes of things someone couldn’t quite bear to leave behind.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the rain stopped.
It did not slow. It did not apologise.
It stopped.
Water drained away with reluctant sighs. The river returned to something like itself. Mud claimed the streets. Ballykillduff reappeared, damp, bewildered, but intact.
Jimmy McGrogan dismantled the arc the following week.
Used the timber for sheds, fences, and one very fine bus stop. He never spoke much about it afterward, except once, when someone asked him how he’d known.
Jimmy thought for a moment.
“Well,” he said, “when the rain forgets to leave, it’s best to be polite—but prepared.”
And in Ballykillduff, no one ever argued with that.
Will it Ever Stop Raining?
It was one of those Ballykillduff days that seemed to have been mislaid at birth and never quite recovered.
Morning arrived reluctantly, dragging itself over the hills like a wet coat someone else had already worn. The sky hung low and colourless, a slab of dull tin pressed flat against the rooftops. Rain fell straight down—no drama, no thunder—just a steady, joyless drizzle that soaked everything slowly, as if the day had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.
The village square was empty. Even the statue—whose subject nobody could quite remember—looked embarrassed to be standing there, rain slicking its shoulders until it gleamed like a regret. The shop windows were dim, lights left off to save electricity or enthusiasm. Inside O’Flaherty’s, the radio murmured to itself, unheard by anyone, reporting weather that was already happening far too much.
Water crept along the gutters in thin, patient streams, carrying leaves, grit, and the occasional idea that had fallen out of someone’s head. The river swelled and darkened, moving faster than usual, as though it were late for something important and slightly annoyed about it. It slapped at the banks with muddy urgency, whispering to the stones in a language only old things understood.
People stayed indoors. Curtains twitched. Kettles boiled repeatedly, less out of need than for reassurance. Somewhere, a clock ticked far too loudly, reminding the house that time was still passing even if the day itself appeared stuck.
Down by the lane, the old telephone box—long disconnected but never removed—stood full of rainwater and reflections. For a moment, it looked as though the village had drowned a smaller version of itself inside, a pocket Ballykillduff where it was always raining and nobody ever answered.
By afternoon, the cold had worked its way into the bones of the place. Doors swelled. Hinges complained. The rain grew heavier, not angrier—just more insistent, as though it were trying to explain something important and failing repeatedly. Puddles formed in the familiar dips of the road, each one a dark mirror showing the sky exactly as it was: unhelpful and unavoidable.
And yet—quietly, stubbornly—life went on.
A light flicked on in an upstairs window. Smoke rose from one chimney, then another. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing in particular, satisfied it had done its duty. The rain softened, just a fraction, as evening crept in with blue shadows and the promise of lamps and supper.
Ballykillduff endured the day the way it endured most things: without complaint, without fuss, and with the unspoken understanding that this too would pass. Tomorrow might be brighter. Or stranger. Or worse.
But tonight, the rain would keep falling, the village would keep breathing, and the dark would settle in—not as an ending, but as a pause.
Plungers, Potatoes & Paddy’s Pub
In the misty backroads of Ballykillduff, County Carlow, where the sheep outnumber the people and the only traffic jam is when Mrs. O’Leary’s cow decides to have a lie-down in the middle of the R726, something very peculiar happened one Tuesday.
A meteorite the size of a small tractor crashed into Farmer Murphy’s best potato field. Everyone expected radioactive spuds or at least a good story for the pub. Instead, out crawled three very confused Daleks.
They looked around, eyestalks swivelling like malfunctioning windscreen wipers.
“WHERE ARE WE?” screeched the first one, voice echoing across the hedges.
“SCANNING… LOCATION: BALLYKILLDUFF… IRELAND… POPULATION: MOSTLY SHEEP AND OLD MEN WHO SMELL OF TURF.”
“THIS IS NOT SKARO,” the second one muttered. “THE DOCTOR HAS TRICKED US AGAIN.”
The third Dalek, who had clearly landed on his plunger, wobbled sideways. “MY PLUNGER IS STUCK IN A COW PAT. THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE.”
They decided to conquer the village. Standard procedure.
First stop: Paddy’s pub.
They burst through the door (well, the first one did; the other two got wedged in the frame because Daleks aren’t great with narrow Irish doorways).
“EXTERMINATE ALL HUMANS!”
Old Paddy at the bar looked up from his pint. “Ah, would ye look at that. The circus is in town early this year.”
The Daleks swivelled their domes menacingly.
“YOU WILL OBEY THE DALEKS!”
Paddy took a slow sip. “Sure, lads, ye’re grand. But if ye’re here to conquer, ye’ll need to join the queue. The taxman got here first.”
The Daleks tried to exterminate the dartboard. The darts bounced off their casings and stuck in the ceiling. The regulars started a sweepstake on how long it would take for the “metal lads” to get stuck in the bog.
Next, they rolled down to the local GAA pitch, where the Ballykillduff Junior B team was training. The Daleks declared the pitch their new “Dalek Empire”.
The team captain, a lad called Seamus who once tackled a bullock for fun, eyed them. “Ye’re taking up the whole goalmouth. Move over, or I’ll bury ye under the subs’ bench.”
“WE ARE DALEKS! WE DO NOT MOVE FOR INFERIOR LIFE FORMS!”
Seamus shrugged, grabbed a hurley, and gave the lead Dalek a gentle tap. The Dalek spun like a top, arms flailing, and ploughed straight into the goal net. The net wrapped around it like a Christmas present gone wrong.
“EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! I AM ENTANGLED IN… NET!”
The other two Daleks tried to help, but ended up tangled too. Soon the whole team was using them as makeshift goalposts. The score ended 12-0, with the Daleks credited as “assists”.
By evening, the Daleks were in the village hall, surrounded by grannies knitting and children painting them with hurling club colours (green and gold, naturally). One granny had even stuck a tiny Aran jumper over the eyestalk.
“THIS IS NOT CONQUEST,” the lead Dalek whimpered.
“IT IS… COMMUNITY SERVICE.”
In the end, the Daleks didn’t conquer Ballykillduff. Ballykillduff conquered them.
They still live there, in a shed behind Murphy’s pub. They help with the silage (their plungers are surprisingly good at lifting bales), and every Christmas they perform a nativity play where they play the Three Wise Men. (The baby Jesus is a suspiciously shiny sheep.)
And if you ever drive through Ballykillduff on a quiet night, you might hear a faint, metallic voice drifting across the fields:
“EXTERMINATE… THE MIDGES!”
Because even Daleks can’t handle an Irish summer.
Here are some properly terrible, Dalek-flavoured dad jokes for you:
- Why did the Dalek go to therapy? It had too many suppressed exterminate feelings.
- What do you call a Dalek who’s really into gardening? A plant-exterminator.
- Why don’t Daleks play hide and seek? Because good luck hiding when your battle cry is “EX-TER-MI-NATE!”
- How do Daleks flirt? “You will be my valentine… OR YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED.”
- What’s a Dalek’s favourite type of music? Heavy metal… specifically anything with a lot of grinding and screaming.
- Why was the Dalek terrible at stand-up comedy? Every punchline ended with “AND THEN YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED!”
- What did the Dalek say when it stubbed its plunger? “THIS IS PAIN! PAIN IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!”
- Why did the Dalek fail his driving test? He kept shouting “OBEY THE HIGHWAY CODE!” at pedestrians.
- How do Daleks pay for things? With extermination credits. (Cash is inferior.)
- What’s the difference between a Dalek and a bad date? The Dalek only wants to exterminate you after one drink.
Which one made you groan the loudest? 😄
Alice in Tartaria
Alice in the Magical Square of Tartaria
Ballykillduff is a village that thinks quietly.
Lanes hesitate. Grass leans when it should not. Things happen just slightly to the side of where they are supposed to be. Alice has lived there long enough to know this, and just long enough not to question it.
So when a crease appears in the air behind the Old Creamery, and a place called Tartaria slips sideways into existence, Alice is the only one who notices — and the only one who understands that some places survive by being remembered badly.
Tartaria is a civilisation that vanished by behaving too well. Now it endures in a state of almost compound memory: misremembered, misfiled, and dangerously unfinished. Maps argue. Councils disagree. Scholars from Outside begin asking sensible questions — the most dangerous kind of all.
As Alice moves between Ballykillduff and Tartaria, she discovers that memory is not passive, certainty is a trap, and being understood may be far worse than being forgotten. Worse still, Tartaria begins to misremember her.
To save both worlds, Alice must learn how to remember wrongly on purpose — without doing it too well.
Alice in Ballykillduff and the Almost-Remembered Tartaria is a whimsical, quietly unsettling fantasy in the tradition of Lewis Carroll: a story about places that think, truths that refuse to settle, and the peculiar courage it takes to remain unfinished.
To read this new story click on the link below.
The Moonlight Key and the Sky-Bottomed Square
Ballykillduff is a village where nothing ever happens twice. Liam is a man of spreadsheets and stone walls, a man who believes that a key’s only job is to open a door. But when he fumbles his keyring into the black, glassy surface of the Un-Lake, the laws of Carlow begin to fray at the seams.
He doesn’t just get his keys back. He pulls something out from the reflection—a Moonlight Key that hums with the sound of “What If.”
Now, the “Out-There” is leaking in. The local pub is made of liquid Guinness, the sky has swapped places with the ground, and a choir of sepia-toned ancestors is singing the town into a memory. As the “Architect of the In-Between,” Liam must navigate a landscape built of his own stray thoughts to lock the leak before the village he knows is un-thunk forever.
In the Un-Lake, the reflection is better than the reality. But as Liam is about to learn, a perfect world is a very lonely place to live.
To continue reading this story, click HERE and enjoy.
