Despite continuing my investigation over the weeks that followed, I didn't manage to unearth any additional information about Aidan. So, as spring turned to summer and the days became longer and warmer, Cormac's diary and Úna's chiselled mural were still the only salient clues I had that a supernatural presence had potentially existed in Doran.

I couldn't tell you why I was so preoccupied with this particular affair from the nineteenth century. Perhaps it was my natural interest in local history combined with an apparent paranormal element that kept me intrigued. This may also have been mixed with reasons of a somewhat more personal nature, such as my strong aversion to homophobic attacks, or the idea that arson may have taken place on property that was now owned by your family.

But even if I didn't know what lay behind my fascination with the events outlined in Cormac's journal, I did know that I was thirsty to know more about them. To learn the additional details regarding Cormac's attempted murder. To find out who started the fire and what their motivation was for committing such an atrocity. Whether Aidan really did have supernatural gifts and how he was connected to all of it. Everything.

Using the pictures that I'd taken on my phone, I read the ancient diary countless times over those weeks, each time hoping that I'd pick up on something that I'd previously missed. I'd often get absorbed in the narrative, which sparked my imagination like a fictional book. Only, for me, this was more interesting, because it appeared to be written about real people and their perception of historical events. And, of course, like any good book, I was curious to know how it ended.

But most of all, I wanted to understand the cryptic note that Cormac had scrawled across the back page of his chronicles. He'd seemed convinced that the book would fall into Aidan's hands, and they'd be reunited somehow. And although I recognised that it may have been a fantasy induced by Cormac's trauma, it still bothered me that I couldn't make sense of it.

By the time summer was upon us, I had read the memoirs so many times that I had the text committed to memory, like a teenager learning the lyrics to their favourite song.

I told nobody about my preoccupation with the notebook, which was admittedly, in hindsight, an error.

At the time, I was probably a little embarrassed about being so consumed by something that others were likely to find dull. I reasoned that everyone occasionally went through phases of obsession, and that my passion for this topic was nothing special. That it was no more than harmless curiosity about historical events that would have no significant impact on anyone else.

I was wrong.

It was close to the start of that summer, on an otherwise ordinary Friday afternoon, when my sister arrived home eager to tell us about her latest school assignment.

As I texted a friend from where I was perched on a tall stool, leaning my elbows on the small breakfast bar near the serving hatch in our dining room, I could hear her chatting to our Mam in the adjoining kitchen about her investigation. One of her teachers had apparently asked the students to construct a family tree and research information on the etymology of their surnames, ready for a class discussion about heritage.

"Did you know that McCoy is derived from an old Irish word meaning 'fire'?" Niamh enthused. "It can be traced back to the name of a pagan god. How cool is that? We're officially the 'fire' family!"

I heard a thwack, and I guessed that my mother's wooden spoon had landed hard on the back of Niamh's hand as my sister undoubtedly reached for a freshly baked cookie.

"You'll see me spitting flames in a minute if you go near those cookies again, young lady! Those are for the school fête!"

Shaking my head, I wondered whether my sister would ever learn to ask before reaching for the sweet treats.

"Sorry, Mam," she acknowledged. "I wasn't thinking. I was just excited about telling you what all of our names meant."

"I thought you said you were just supposed to look into your surname for your assignment?" my mother remarked with a clatter of plates.

"Well, yeah," Niamh concurred. "But my friends and I got carried away and we ended up looking up each other's first names, too. Some of them were really funny, so then I started looking up all of ours as well."

"Find out anything interesting?" asked Mam.

"Well, my name means 'radiant,' so you must have known, even back then, that I'd light up your life!" my sister informed her. "Your name, Shannon, means 'wise river,' which makes sense because you always seem to know lots of stuff. Dad's name, Darren, means 'oak tree,' and symbolises strength and longevity. Ryan means 'little king,' but given that he can't even rule a straight line, that name doesn't suit him at all."

My stomach suddenly flipped, and I looked up from the message I'd been replying to on my phone. I'd never questioned the traditional meaning behind either my Christian name or my surname before, and under different circumstances I'd probably have disregarded the conversation I'd just overheard as nothing more than idle chatter. But today, I needed to verify that I'd understood Niamh correctly.

I pushed myself up from the stool and leaned through the open serving hatch in the wall.

"Sounds like you really got into this assignment," I said. "Did I hear you say that McCoy means 'fire'? And that Ryan means 'king'?"

"Little king," she stressed. "Don't start getting delusions of grandeur."

"They're not delusions," I grinned, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl that was just within reach and taking a bite.

As I turned on my heel and headed for the stairs with my freshly acquired fruit snack, I heard her quip back, "Get over yourself. Everyone else has."

Taking the stairs to my bedroom two at a time, I continued to smile to myself. I enjoyed the spirited banter that I often shared with my sister, and usually I'd come back with some equally derisive retort.

However, right now I needed space to process the new information that I'd just received, since the idea that one of my names was derived from the word 'fire,' and the other meant 'king,' had left me feeling somewhat frenetic.

Once I was inside my bedroom, I closed the door and continued to munch absentmindedly on my freshly acquired apple as I contemplated the possibilities. The words from the back of Cormac's diary whirled through my mind as I sunk into my swivel chair and let it recline under me.

"I have faith that one day this book will find its way into the hands of the one whose name means 'Fire King.' When that day comes, he will know where to look and what to do."

I'd assumed he'd meant Aidan, but what if he'd intended the message for someone else?

What if that person was me?

That wasn't possible, surely?

I needed to look at the evidence objectively. Taking a deep breath, I reasoned that I shouldn't jump to any conclusions, since technically, my name meant 'King Fire' rather than 'Fire King.'

Unless, of course, you read it in the style of an old-fashioned school or parish register, like those of the nineteenth century, where the surname always came before the Christian name.

My body became agitated as my thoughts became unsettled, and I started tapping the nails of my free hand on the desk in front of me in a rhythmic pattern as my knee jiggled beneath it.

The book had fallen into my hands, hadn't it? The encounter I'd had with the diary had admittedly been brief, but still, everything seemed to fit the criteria Cormac had outlined in his prediction.

That is, except for one very important part about knowing where to look and what to do. I could safely say that I had no idea about either of those.

The only thing that connected me to Cormac or his property was that I used to dig for 'treasure' in the land that was left behind after the fire in the hope of finding ancient artifacts.

Was I supposed to be inspecting one of those relics further?

I stood up and started scanning the various nineteenth century antiquated objects that I'd unearthed over the years and displayed on the shelves of my bedroom, paying specific attention to the items I'd collected from the neglected wasteland on the far side of your property. One by one, I picked up the faded coins, pieces of broken pottery and other small vestiges of the era, inspecting each one individually for some indication that would help me make sense of all this.

But after a couple of hours of scrutinising the artifacts to find no information of value, I started to question whether that was really what was 'expected' of me.

Closing my eyes, I slumped back into my chair, rubbing my temples as I attempted to ground myself with logic.

Perhaps I was looking for hidden meanings where there were none. I endeavoured to reason with myself that it was more likely that the fact that my names were derived from words that meant 'king' and 'fire' was a complete coincidence. I reminded myself that they weren't even in the correct order to create the phrase 'Fire King.'

Besides, my mother had chosen then name 'Ryan' nearly two centuries after the time that the diary entry would have been written. Rationally, the statement in the back of Cormac's diary couldn't have been intended for me.

So ... why did it feel like it was?

Could it be because I was so intrigued by the book that I was looking for a sign that I was somehow connected to it? Or was I already somehow linked to all of this and that's what had been triggering my infatuation? Was it fate that put that book in my hands, or pure happenstance? Was I only seeing what I wanted to see, or was there genuinely more going on here?

Excavating Cormac's property, as I had done in my youth, was the only real link I had to him or his diary. So, it made sense to me that if I was supposed to take this further, it would be by salvaging something important from that piece of derelict land.

However, nothing I'd found had given me any insight or clues regarding how to proceed. All I'd uncovered so far were dead ends.

My thoughts swirled around me, gathering momentum. Perhaps this wasn't about what had already been found. What if the hypothesis was correct, and I just hadn't unearthed the relevant item yet?

As I endeavoured to navigate the muddy waters between epiphany and coincidence, I knew I needed to explore my emerging conjecture for my own peace of mind. At least if I exhausted such possibilities then I wouldn't leave myself forever questioning whether I should have investigated further.

I knew the idea might have been crazy, but for the sake of my own sanity, I had to be sure I'd covered all the options I could think of.

So, tomorrow, I would dig.