Shadows

Lisa lies awake, 
moonlight pooling 

across the floor. 

A breeze stirs the curtains 
as the cathedral clock chimes. 

She shifts beneath the covers.

Below, Daniel sleeps
or so she imagines.

Composed, assured. 

His calm unsettles her – 

unfamiliar,
unusually magnetic.

She watches the ceiling. 
Shadows shift.

She closes her eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. 

Instead –

Daniel’s hands as he spoke, 
the calm cadence of his voice, 

the care with which he noticed things. 

Unassuming, steady.

Too close.

She turns.

The girl’s face hovers. 
Pale, hollow-eyed. 

Hesitant words coaxed from her,
each one necessary. 

Or so she told herself – 

still tells herself.

I don’t know why she’s gone. 
Mama never said anything bad.

The memory catches.

The girl’s eyes blur 
into the doll’s in the garden.

Upturned, weathered by time. 

The two 

merge.

Integrity

Her thoughts circle to Daniel. 

How does this man,
gentle, perceptive

align with Richter’s account? 

Bound to State orders, yet a part of him resists that shape. 

A steadiness. 
Perhaps even refusal. 

Integrity? 

If Richter was wrong about Daniel – 
what else has she misread?

She sits up. 

The room has cooled. 

Knees drawn close, 
she presses her face to the covers.

Lisa looks to the moon.

Tomorrow will require precision. 

She is here to support Daniel. 
To serve Richter. 

To report. 

But the space – 

between those roles 

keeps – 

widening.

Deserve to be seen

The meeting room favours function over comfort. 

Daniel stands by the window, gaze lifted to the cathedral spire. 
Turning, he takes his seat at the head of the table. 

The room settles around him.

Before we move into consecration logistics, 
I’d like us to reflect on the Church’s role in this diocese – 

and the message we want the ceremony to carry.

Lisa’s attention lifts at the shift from protocol to vision.

Our goal is clear – 

Openness. Humility. 

The consecration should show the Church serves not just its clergy – but everyone.

Arne hesitates. 
And how does that look in practice?

It means inviting more than officials.
Teachers. Artists. Labourers. 

People who may never have stepped inside this cathedral. 

They deserve to be seen.

Lisa leans in – 

her gaze now fixed on Daniel.

In my travels, I’ve heard a recurring concern.

Restlessness among the youth. 

Some pastors are responding 
with dialogue, music.

Even political expression. 

It’s provocative – but it meets a need we can’t ignore.

Arne frowns.
But that kind of openness – won’t it draw scrutiny?

It’s a delicate balance.
One we must navigate. 

And the responsibility rests with me. 

I’ll see to it there’s 

nothing to fear.

Lightens

Daniel glances at Lisa. 

Is this real? 

And if it is – 
where does that leave her?

Daniel looks around the room.

Are there other groups or individuals we should invite?

Perhaps union leaders? Arne ventures, tapping his pen.

Any other thoughts?

Maren glances up. 

Well, considering what you said, maybe we could invite young people. 

Musicians, athletes. It would show we’re listening.

Thank you, Maren.
I hadn’t thought of that.

The air lightens slightly.

Personal

Lisa leans forward. 

What about orphans? 

Her voice is unsteady. 

There are so many – children who’ve lost homes, families. 
Even now, the scars remain.

Silence gathers –

Maren glances at Arne. 

Lisa’s voice falters. 

Children need more than sermons or charity. 
They need a chance. 

Her fingers tighten on the table’s edge.

Daniel watches her. 
Looks to the others. 

Let’s take a short break. Ten minutes.

Arne and Maren hesitate, then rise.

Lisa moves to stand.

Would you stay a moment?

She lowers herself back into the chair, 
her hands clenched in her lap.

I’m sorry. That wasn’t professional.

Daniel sits across from her, hands loose on the table. 

No need to apologise.
What you said mattered. 

But it felt personal. Do you want to say more?

Lisa’s voice catches.
It’s just – orphans.

I lost both parents in the war. 
My father died at the front. 

My mother in a bombing raid. 
I was twelve.

Daniel looks briefly at his hands.

My mother died in a bombing raid too. 
I was older – fighting in Italy. 

My father – he died when I was twelve. 

So yes – 

I understand.

Attentive

Lisa, could you share this with the others? 

Her breath catches. 
Her fingers curl, uncurl. 

I’ll try.

Daniel watches.

She straightens, 
placing her hands flat on the table.

Maren and Arne re-enter.

Lisa has something she’d like to share.

She glances at Daniel.

He leans in, hands clasped, wholly attentive. 

It steadies her.

As she speaks, no one interrupts. 

When she finishes, 
the attention holds.

Daniel nods –
a quiet thanks.

The meeting resumes. 
A quieter focus settling over the room.

Lisa glances at Daniel. 

A shift – 

unspoken, 

tentative.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Capable

Lisa steps into her office. Sits at her desk.

For a moment it’s calm.

Her gaze lifts to the window. 
Sunlight strikes the rectory’s fresh-painted facade.

Lisa! Lisa!

Arne Breugmann stands in the doorway, 
glasses askew, hands clasped.

Lisa looks up, brow lifting with mild amusement. 

Good morning, Arne.
You seem – energised.

You’ll never believe it – 
the next bishop
will be the Reverend Dean Daniel Leidner!

Lisa tilts her head. 

Daniel Leidner.
No – 
I don’t believe I know him.

Oh, Lisa – he’s wonderful.
Kind, attentive. 
Truly the best dean we’ve had in years.

He certainly sounds capable.

Capable!
He’s done so much for the Church.

His consecration is in November – two months.

Lisa, can you help?

Of course. The rectory refurbishment is almost done. 
Let me know what you need.

Oh, thank you, Lisa. You’re a lifesaver.

As Arne turns, he nearly trips on the threshold, 
and –
with a quick wave, vanishes down the corridor. 

Lisa’s gaze drifts back to the window.

Who is Daniel Leidner, really? 
A calm administrator, as Arne claims? 

Or someone else entirely?

Exciting

Arne paces the administration office. 

Every few steps, he checks his watch, 
muttering under his breath. 

Across the room, Lisa stands at the window, 
watching the morning unfold.

The September air is crisp, 
sunlight glinting off the cathedral spire. 

The earlier mist has lifted, 
leaving the day bright and sharp. 

Her gaze follows the tree-lined avenue that leads to the cathedral. 

A man on a bicycle appears, 
pedalling steadily – 
his figure catching the light.

He slows near the building.
Props the bicycle against the stone wall. 

Retrieves a brown leather briefcase, 
and straightens his jacket. 

Slight in build, 
dark hair neatly combed.

He glances once at his shoes, 
lifts his gaze to the cathedral. 

Lisa steps back. 

Arne. He’s here.

Arne stops pacing, joins her at the window. 

Oh, this is so exciting!

Before she can reply, 

he’s gone – 

his footsteps echoing down the hall.

Welcome

Arne swings the main door open just as Daniel arrives. 

Good morning, Reverend Dean. Welcome.

Good morning, Herr Breugmann. 
Today feels like the beginning of a new chapter.

Arne gestures him inside with a flourish.

Lisa’s thoughts drift.

The man outside had moved with a quiet dignity.
Something Richter had never mentioned. 

A gentle knock breaks her focus. 
Lisa rises and opens the door to find Arne standing with Daniel.

Lisa, may I introduce Reverend Dean Daniel Leidner. 
Reverend, this is Lisa Grau – she keeps everything running.

Lisa offers a measured smile and steps aside. 

Welcome, Reverend Dean.
Please, come in.

Arne fidgets. 
I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Unless – coffee?

Daniel steps into the room, placing his briefcase on the chair opposite Lisa’s desk. 

He turns to Arne with a nod. 
Herr Breugmann – may I call you Arne?

Arne blushes. 
Of course.

Daniel rests a hand lightly on Arne’s arm.

In that case, Arne, please call me Daniel. 
No need for Reverend Dean.

And yes, I’d love a cup of coffee. 

He turns to Lisa. 

Frau Grau, will you join me?

Lisa hesitates. 

The warmth in his voice –
unexpected.

Of course.
Please – call me Lisa. 

Daniel smiles. 

By all means, Lisa.

Well-organised

He glances at her. 

The way 
she holds herself –
composed, poised.

Arne’s gaze moves between them – delighted. 

I’ll fetch the coffee.

Daniel turns back.

This is a fine office. 
Efficient, well-organised. 
I imagine it mirrors its occupant.

Lisa offers a small smile.
Gestures towards the chair. 

No doubt, you’ve had quite a morning.

Eventful.
But I’m glad to be here. 

And the rectory – 
I hear it’s nearly ready?

Yes, it is. 
I can take you over once we’ve had our coffee.

I’d appreciate that. 

A quiet forms between them.

Lisa sets her cup down. 
Shall we?

Daniel rises, hand pausing on his briefcase. 

Would it be all right if I left this here?

Of course. 
I can lock the door if you’d like.

He shakes his head. 

No, that won’t be necessary. 
I trust it will be safe.

Lisa notices how his fingers linger 
on the handle before stepping away. 

It will be.

Brushes

They cross the courtyard, steps light against the stone. 

The morning has brightened, the rectory’s facade catching the light.

Lisa unlocks the front door and steps aside. 

Daniel steps into the entry hall. 

Light filters through tall windows, flickering on the polished floor. 
A faint scent of citrus lingers.

He walks further.
Lisa watches as he takes in the space. 

How his hand brushes the back of a chair.

Lisa,

this is –

remarkable.

She leads him through to the sitting room, 
gesturing towards the adjoining dining area. 

Daniel pauses to look at the table’s centrepiece.

A small arrangement of late-summer flowers. 
His fingers brush a petal with a light touch.

You’ve done excellent work. 
It’s welcoming without being ostentatious.

Lisa nods. 

Your room is upstairs.
Would you like to see it?

Sharing

Yes, please. 
Daniel follows her up the steps.

This will be your room. 

Light spills through a single window overlooking the garden. 
It’s spare – nothing more.

Daniel moves to the window. 
This is perfect. I like the simplicity.

When did you plan to move in?

As soon as possible.
I’ll need time to settle before the consecration.

He glances round the room.

Is there another room, perhaps? 
I need to keep work and sleep apart. 
This feels a little too confined for both.

There’s a small room next to the kitchen. 
It looks out onto the garden. 

I thought maybe you’d prefer to work upstairs. 
But we can easily see to it.

Daniel shakes his head gently.

No problem, Lisa. 
You couldn’t have known.

Arne mentioned that you’ll be living here as well?

Lisa hesitates.

Yes. It’s part of my contract. 
My room is upstairs, so I’ll be close by. 
Ready to help as needed. 

You won’t have to worry about cooking, cleaning, or laundry.

Lisa – 
just because I’ll be a bishop doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how to cook or clean. 

Perhaps we could share the kitchen now and then. 
I’d enjoy that.

Lisa blinks. 

She meets his gaze. 

Turning to the door, she allows a faint smile.

By all means, Daniel. 
If you’d like to pitch in, 

I’m sure –

we can make it work. 

Home

As they descend the stairs, the formality eases.

Daniel pauses at the sitting room doorway, his gaze lingering on the light, the careful arrangements, the furnishings that steady the space. 

Lisa, this is impressive.
It’s more than a rectory – it’s a home.

A trace of pride crosses Lisa’s face. 

We’ve tried to make it welcoming – without erasing its character.

You’ve succeeded.

Lisa glances towards the front door.

If you’ve seen enough, shall we head back to my office and go over any other details?

They step into the courtyard – walk back along the path.

Lisa leads – 

turns. 

Daniel lingers behind her, 
gaze lifted towards the cathedral. 

He stands – composed.

She watches, noting the grace in his poise.

Not just a man observing a place, 
but one measuring what it might now ask of him.

Shall we?

He nods, stepping towards her.

They enter the administration building.

A silent accord 

gathering –

between them.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Pacing

Richter sets his pen aside.

Daniel is due shortly. 

He rises – paces.

He stops. 

Brings his hands together with a muted clap. 

Success must echo far.

He resumes pacing.

Looms

Daniel steps into Richter’s office. 

The room unsettles – 

The cabinet dominates the far wall. 

Transformed since his last visit, it looms like a silent sentinel.

Spotlights illuminate its contents. 
Glass jars named and numbered – ranked on one side, antique figures on the other. 

What was once an empty frame now carries a purpose he can’t name. 

Yes. My little collection.

Daniel steps forward and takes Richter’s outstretched hand. 

Welcome, Daniel. It’s good to see you again.

The grip is brief.

Witnesses

Daniel lingers by the cabinet. 

This isn’t just a collection. 

It’s a tableau of control.

Daniel clears his throat. 

This collection – it’s striking. But disturbing.

Richter’s gaze sweeps the cabinet.
Disturbing? How so?

Each piece feels – placed. Not just displayed. 
As if they’re not objects – but witnesses.

Witnesses – an intriguing word. Perhaps that’s their value.

Richter lets his words hang.

Each piece carries a fragment of the past. 
Preserved. Reframed. Given purpose. 
Like our actions now – shaping what follows.

Daniel almost asks where the figures came from. 
Caution reins him in.

Is it a hobby?

Since the war. So many pieces vanished – scattered, lost. 
I see it as a duty to save them. 

Protect from misuse. Preserve. Reframe.

The word reframe lingers.

But the past can wait. 
We’re here to talk about your future.

Yes, you mentioned a

possibility?

Binding

Richter gestures towards the chair. 
Coffee? 

Daniel nods. 

Richter sits opposite him.

Clinks his teaspoon on the edge of the cup.

Once, twice. 

Places it neatly on the saucer. 

As I said, let’s discuss why you’re here. 
This may come as a surprise, 

but –

we’d like to offer you the bishopric, Daniel. 

He brings his hands together.

The State has scrutinised every candidate. 
Yours rose again and again – to the top.

The bishopric? 
Surely, there are others more qualified?

Others may have the credentials. 
But you, Daniel, have what matters more. 

Resilience.

Under your care, the Church has flourished.

Daniel’s gaze drifts to the window. 

Is this genuine encouragement? Does Richter really see me?

Or is it just persuasion – a net cast to bind me tighter?

Richter gestures towards the cabinet.
Like these fragments of history. 

Made meaningful again.

Daniel 

stills –

I need time to consider.

Richter smiles.

Of course. 

But understand – 

opportunities like this 

don’t return. 

Doubt

Daniel doesn’t reply.

Is trust even possible here?

Richter sees the doubt. 

Leans forward.

The bishopric isn’t simply a post. 
It’s a mantle, Daniel. 

It carries the weight of generations – a responsibility 
not easily refused.

Daniel stands. 

Their handshake is brief – formal.

Light from the cabinet 

spills – 

along the wall. 

Behind him, 

the glass jars and figures remain.

Witnesses –

Watching. Waiting.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Unexpected

Lisa steps into the cathedral administration building, her heels tapping lightly on the polished wood. 

High ceilings and tall windows lend the space a sense of grandeur. 

Around her, the hum of activity threads through the air.

•

She straightens. Smooths 
the lapel of her coat. 

Her smile is composed. 

Her gaze flicks 
across the closed doors. 

Anticipation builds – 

Her resolve 
now tempered 

with restraint. 

A new assignment, 
a role to inhabit. 

She intends – 

to command it.

•

A man with round glasses 
and unruly hair hurries 

towards her. 

You must be Lisa Grau! 
Welcome, welcome 

he says, slightly breathless. 

His glasses slip 
as he greets 

her with a small nod. 

He gestures her forward, 
his scattered enthusiasm 

almost disarming. 

Sorry – but yes. Arne Breugmann, at your service. Head of staff.

Thank you, Herr Breugmann. 

A pleasure to meet you. 

Lisa steps 
into his office. 

Papers strewn 
across the desk.

Books stacked 
haphazardly. 

A steaming 
pot of coffee 

on a side table. 

There’s warmth here. 

Unexpected –

but not 

unwelcome.

Fitting

Arne gestures to a worn but inviting chair. 

He drops into his own, adjusts his glasses.

Frau Grau, your experience is impressive – Magna cum laude in German literature. 

Excellent! Any author in particular? 

He leans forward, eyes bright.

Rainer Maria Rilke. His work has always stayed with me – especially Song of the Sea. 

There’s a meditative quality in it.

•

Lisa’s expression lifts,
her voice softens. 

Herr Breugmann – please, call me Lisa. 
Frau feels a little too formal, don’t you think?

Arne blinks, 
then chuckles. 

Well then, Lisa, please call me Arne.

Thank you. 
It’ll be a pleasure to work with someone 
who shares a love of poetry.

Absolutely.

Let me guess, if Song of the Sea speaks to you, 
it must be how he writes about stillness. 

Exactly –

The way he distills 
the immensity of existence 

into words. 

That’s always 
resonated with me. 

Lisa recites: 

Timeless sea breezes, sea-wind of the night: 
you come for no one; if someone should wake, 
he must be prepared how to survive you.

Arne smiles. 
His hands come 

to rest –

briefly. 

Beautiful. 

You’ll fit right in here, Lisa. 

We’ve long needed 

someone – 

like you.

Become her own

Maren, the secretary assigned to her, leads Lisa through the rectory. 

Dim corridors and heavy furnishings exude years of neglect. 

Lisa trails a finger along a dusty windowsill.

•

Velvet curtains hang 
stiff and faded, 

their deep red dulled 
to a weary brown. 

Bulky furniture crowds 
the rooms, thickening 

the air with a heaviness 
that feels inherited.

The kitchen is 
more relic than room. 

Linoleum curls 
at the edges. 

Appliances wear 
the dull patina of overuse. 

Lisa’s eyes sweep 

the chipped sink 
and old stove, 

already cataloguing 
what must go.

A room, soon to be hers.

The structure’s sound. 

Maren nods. 

It just needs someone to bring it back to life.
The bishop’s last housekeeper retired 
years before his death – no one has touched it since.

Lisa steps 
into her assigned quarters 

on the top floor of the rectory. 

A small, tidy room 
with a window 

overlooking 

the cathedral 
and neglected garden 

below. 

The view 

catches her 

off guard. 

Rain-dappled leaves glisten
in the sun. The shrubs hold

a restrained symmetry.

A space that can become her own.

A contrast 
to the dull 

anonymity 
of her flat.

Lisa smiles to Maren.

This will do nicely.

Downstairs –

I'd like work to begin in my room,
the kitchen, and bathroom.

I'll need to move in

as soon as possible.

Just the person

Later in the day, Lisa and Arne reconvene in his office to review the budget. 

She spreads her notes and a rough sketch of the rectory’s proposed changes across his desk.

Her tone is crisp, assured.

•

The rectory needs modernising, 
but we can preserve its character 
with thoughtful planning.

Restoring the hardwood floors, 
replacing the heavy curtains 
and furniture with something lighter.

These will brighten the space 
without compromising its history.

Arne leans over the plans, 
his brow furrowed 
in concentration. 

When Lisa finishes, 
he straightens, 
a smile spreading 

across his face. 

Goodness, it’s refreshing to work 
with someone who understands 
figures and detail. 

You’ve thought of everything.

Lisa returns a modest nod. 

Efficiency is key. 
The budget is generous, 
but it needs care. 

Absolutely – 

You’re just the person 

this place 

has been waiting for.

A blank slate

As they finalise the plans, Arne rises. 

I nearly forgot – your office. Let me show you.

He leads her to a small, bright room overlooking the courtyard. 

A desk stands empty. 

The shelves, though dusty, promise space. 

Lisa sets her notebook down.

A blank slate. 

•

This will work perfectly.

Good. I’ll leave you to settle in.

By the window, Lisa watches 
the rain trace its uneven lines 

across the glass, its rivulets 
distorting the cathedral’s spire. 

Footsteps echo faintly 
down the hallway. 

The work ahead 
is hers now.

If –

she can keep 
her balance.

She turns to leave, 
then pauses.  

She pivots –

returns towards 
Maren’s desk.

If you don’t mind,

I’d like to see 

my room 

again.

Simply waking

Lisa steps to the window, drawn to the garden below. 

The rain has passed. 

Sunlight breaks through the clouds, glinting on the April leaves.

•

The view’s 

simplicity – 

the symmetry of the shrubs, 
the faint border of lavender

is unexpectedly uplifting. 

A stark contrast 
to the sterile precision 

of State Security.

The calculated austerity 
of Richter’s office. 

For a moment, 

she imagines – 

waking here, untethered 
by orders or reports. 

Simply waking.

•

Then she sees it. 

A pale shape, 
half-hidden 

among the shrubs. 

Not clear at first.

A flicker, a blur. 

A small face, ghostlike 
in the foliage. 

Weathered. Forgotten. 

Its features softened 
by time, faintly upturned 

to the sky. 

Not the girl’s – 

just a doll.

Yet her breath still catches.

The memory 
doesn’t recede. 

It presses forward – 

against the lightness 
just moments before.

•

Maren’s voice breaks through.

Something wrong?

No. Nothing. 

It’s – 

a lovely view.

As they walk back 

to administration –

Am I the one guiding this? 

Or am I being led?

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Potential

Richter stands at his office window, gazing over the town’s mediaeval tangle of red-tiled rooftops. 

Winter light filters through sheer curtains, casting the room in a silver-grey chill. 

•

He picks up the phone and dials.

Daniel, 

I regret – 

our misunderstanding. 

Boundaries get tested. 

His words 

settle –

cold as frost.

Daniel’s voice is tight. 
What do you want, Richter?

To reassure you – 

I’m considering a more demanding assignment. 
Better aligned with your – potential.

Daniel is now known 

for precision.

A priest respected 
even within the Church’s 
cautious ranks. 

That makes him 

valuable 

and –

dangerous.

Silence stretches – 

broken only by Daniel’s 
uneven breath.

I’ll be in touch when it’s final. 

You’re a valuable asset, Daniel. 

Don’t forget it.

Unsettles

Lisa’s success is unquestioned. 

The mother – a known subversive – is imprisoned. 

The daughter, left adrift.

Lisa enters Richter’s office and closes the door.

•

The glass cabinet spans 
the far wall, 

its shelves catching 
the overhead glare. 

To the left, rows of glass jars.
Each holding a folded 

suede square, labelled 
by name and number. 

To the right, clusters
of artefacts sit 

watchful under 
the sterile light. 

Richter measures her approach.

Lieutenant, you’ve exceeded my expectations.

She inclines her head. 

Thank you, Sir. 

Her gaze lingers on the jars.

She takes the seat opposite him.
Back straight, hands neatly folded.

The cabinet’s 

cold symmetry 

unsettles.

Recoil

Richter follows her glance.

I see you’ve taken an interest in my collection.

Yes, Sir. It’s – unusual.

Each suede square holds 
the scent of those who’ve sat here.

Very useful for tracking. 
Our dogs are excellent.

You’re sitting on one now.

Lisa’s eyes flicker –

She glances down. 

Her voice is steady.

Interesting –

The recoil passes

not erased.

•

Lisa gestures to the artefacts. 

What about those?

Ah. My collection of treasures. 
Symbols of faith, superstition, tradition

secured – 

so they’re no longer misused.

People forget quickly once their trinkets are gone.

Secured for whom?

Richter stills for a moment.

For stability, Lisa. 
For the greater good.

Surely – 
you understand.

Waiting

Lisa’s gaze drops. 

The girl’s face 

rises – 

pale, watchful. 

Waiting for a promise 
that never came. 

The State would protect 
the child’s future.

Did she protect the girl

or abandon her?

Close enough

Richter opens a drawer, takes out a file, lays it on the desk, and taps it once.

Your next assignment. A valuable asset in need of – reassurance. 

Daniel Leidner. 

You’ve heard of him?

I have, Sir. Thorough. Trusted.

Precisely. But he’s lonely, Lisa. Fragile. 

He needs a steady hand.

•

How close do you expect me to get? 

Close enough to gain his confidence. 
He’s mild. Kind, even. 

But weak. 

I’m sure you’ll manage.

And my cover?

You’ll be his housekeeper. 

Low-key. Respectable. 

A presence 

he won’t question. 

You’ve proven yourself capable, Lisa. 
But this assignment will demand more.

Something more, Sir?

Lieutenant Grau – you’ll be a bishop’s housekeeper.

Bishop Daniel Leidner’s housekeeper.

The words hang –

So it’s not just surveillance.

No. 

It’s about 
shaping a life, 
guiding him. 

Encouraging him 
to make the decisions 

the State requires. 

Reassure 
him when he falters.

Subtle influence. 
Observe. 
Suggest. 

Nothing overt.

Remember – 

only through you 
can Daniel’s potential 

be realised.

Shudders

To carry out your assignment, your quarters will be in the rectory. 

Only by living inside his world will you gain the insight we need.

Daniel’s consecration isn’t until November. 

That gives us six months to prepare the rectory. 

You’ll oversee the project. 

The head of staff is Arne Breugmann. 
He knows you’ve cleared security. 

He also knows you’ve studied German literature 
and worked in hotel management.

She rises to go
but the weight 

of the commitment 
catches.

For a moment, she sees the girl

pale-faced, motionless

caught in the glare 
of the glass jars. 

The image 

hovers –

She shudders.

As she leaves

the latch clicks

shut 

behind her.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

STOP

Daniel snatches the phone, dials.

Shouts – 

Richter. Now.

Silence.

A click.

How can I help you, Sir? 

I need to speak with Lieutenant Richter. 

This is Daniel Leidner. It’s urgent.

•

One moment –

Major Richter is not available, Sir.

Sir? 

Is there anything else I can help you with?

No answer –

Then, have a good day, Sir.

Stop –

STOP

Daniel is shaking. 

Get me Richter. Now!

Silence.

I know he’s there. 

Tell him that if he doesn’t take this call

I’ll disclose details 

about our working relationship.

Daniel jolts. 
A line has been crossed.

Just a moment, Sir.

Faint in the background.

Yes, I’ll deal with it.

•

Daniel.
To what do I owe the pleasure?

A meeting is arranged.

Daniel tries to calm.

He hasn’t thought 
it through. 

He doesn’t 
care.

Exactly –

Three days later, Daniel is driven to meet Richter.

Richter’s office is new. Larger, sharper – it radiates control.

A sleek desk anchors the room. 

Behind it, a glass cabinet empty, conspicuous. 

In the corner, a sofa and two chairs.

Too casual. Too arranged.

•

Richter stands 
behind the desk

coffee cup in hand. 

Ah, Daniel. Good of you to come. Coffee?

It isn’t a question.

Thanks.

He sits where indicated – on the sofa. 

Richter stands, posture exact.

They talk – pointless pleasantries. 

Daniel rises 

Paces – 

Hands unsteady.

Richter watches.

You seem troubled Daniel.

I can’t do this anymore.

Can’t do what, exactly?

This – 

The reports. 
The watching. 
The lies. 

All of it.

You’ve done it well, Daniel. 
Why stop now?

I want Hoffmann left alone. 
And the man with the daughter – he isn’t a threat. 
Let him leave.

You filed the reports, Daniel. 
You wrote their fates. 

And now – 

you want them reversed?

•

Do you think 
the State bends 

for loneliness? 

If he wants to leave, 
he’s already 
betrayed the State.

You’re talking about lives.

Richter doesn’t blink

Exactly –

Lives are shaped or broken. 
Yours included.

Daniel turns –

This a system 
that eats people 

alive.

Richter stands – 

still.

Nothing more

“Daniel, if you’re this troubled, perhaps it’s time for you to prove your dedication. 

Something more – nuanced.

Daniel hesitates –

What are you talking about?

There’s a woman. 
Coordinating a subversive cell. 

Sabotage. 

She has a daughter. Fourteen. 
Bright. Observant.

A girl like that notices things.

Daniel. 
You’ll connect. 
Let her talk.

Daniel freezes – 

Unthinkable.

•

You want me to interrogate a child? 

It’s effective. 
The State requires vigilance. 
Sentiment is a liability.

No.

If you won’t, someone else will. 

The child is a source – 

Nothing more.

Daniel shudders.

That’s it, Richter. 

I’m done. 

Don’t even try – 
to draw me back. 

There’s much that could be disclosed.  
  
•

Richter doesn’t rise. 
Doesn’t flinch.

Be careful, Daniel. 
Threats accrue interest.

Daniel turns –

He doesn’t look back.

He pulls the door open. 
Steps into the corridor.

He doesn’t hear 
his own footsteps.

Only the hum 
of fluorescent light

and a tension 

ticking 

in the air.

Taps

Richter doesn’t move.

The door’s echo settles.

A final beat, lingering, fading, then gone.

His hands remain folded. Composed. 

Predictable, he murmurs.

Daniel’s final words

linger –

Richter’s fingers 

tap – 

the desk. 

Then stop.

He snaps 
his fingers.

He’ll –

come around.

Smooth

Richter presses the intercom. 

Send in Grau.

He smooths his uniform.

•

The door opens.

Lieutenant Lisa Grau enters.

Measured step, 
uniform exact. 

Blond hair swept 
into a tight bun. 

Face set.

Only her eyes move – quick, alert.

Richter gestures to Daniel’s chair.

Lieutenant. We have a situation.

How can I assist, Sir?

Richter studies her. 

Twirls the pen between his fingers. 

Says nothing.

Lisa waits. Unblinking.

Upright

Finally –

How do you get on with children?

A faint trace 
crosses her face. 

Hands tighten, 
release. 

I get on well with them.

Let’s say – a fourteen-year-old girl?

No problem.

Richter leans in. 

Do you have children?

No.

Adds –

I’m not married.

Interesting. Attached to anyone?

Lisa meets his gaze. 

No.

To the point. 

You’ll build rapport. 
Make the girl comfortable. 
Gain trust.

He watches her.

Are you willing?

Lisa smooths her skirt. 

Straightens. 

Eyes steady. 

It would be an honour, sir. 

I’ll ensure success.

Her tone is clipped.

They rise. 

He extends his hand. 

She takes it.

Until next time, Lieutenant.

Lisa walks to the door – upright.

Richter returns to his desk.

Fingertips steeple. 

Tap 

once.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Hollow

It rained in the night.

The streets lie grey under the pale dawn. 

Puddles gather on the broken pavement. 

In Daniel’s kitchen, the smell of toast and coffee mingles with the damp chill clinging to the walls.

An envelope lies on the floor. 

Plain. Unmarked. 

Daniel stares at it before picking it up. 

He doesn’t open it straight away. 

Places it on the table – sits. 

The clock ticks.

•

Another one.

How many now? 
Forty? Fifty? 

The first was opened 
with trembling hands. 

Now they just keep 
on arriving. 

Inevitably –

He opens it. 

The sound 
is crisp. 

The pages inside deliver
the same sterile task.

Sheet 1. Surveil and report.

Sheet 2. Travel expenses.

No greeting. 
No signature. 

Instructions
pared to the bone.

Daniel 

stares.

Mumbles –

Harm the State and you harm the Church.

That old line
frayed and worn.

He repeats it –

It rings 

hollow.

Perhaps

Outside, the milkman clinks his bottles. 

A cart clatters on the cobbles.

A rubbish truck growls by. 

Daniel’s gaze drifts to the drawer beside the sink.

•

He opens it. 

Inside 

a stack 
of identical letters. 

He adds 

the new one 
to the top. 

Shuts the drawer.

Perhaps – 

One day 
there'll be no more letters.

The thought 

lingers –

He shakes 
it off. 

Turns 
from the window. 

The day –

begins.

Cuts

On the train, fields slip past in a wash of grey and brown. 

Daniel's briefcase rests beside him. 

Inside: a notebook. A letter. A task. 

Another soul to measure.

•

Rain streaks 
the glass. 

He closes 
his eyes. 

Listens 
to the rhythm, 

tries 
not to think.

•

Later, he flips 
through his notes. 

The sermon 
wasn’t damning. 

Not like Michael’s. 

The letter 
had overstated it.

Petty.

•

The report writes itself.

Subject: 
delivered sermon on Date xx xx xx.

Key terms: 
freedom, resistance.

Faith in the individual. 

Audience engaged.

Recommend:
further monitoring.

His pen 
moves 

steadily – 

Yet 
each stroke 

cuts.

Almost

Daniel’s office smells stale. 

Bare wooden floors. One window. No curtains. 

He opens a file.

Name: Rainer Hoffmann 
Occupation: Postal clerk. 
Age: 52 
Status: Depressed. Unstable.
Purpose: Risk evaluation
Notes: Loyal employee. Fulfilled military service.

•

Daniel pauses. 
His fingers hover. 

He too had served. 

The same war. 
The same obedience.

A knock.

Come in.

The door opens. 

Rainer Hoffmann enters.

Gaunt, bowed. 
Cap in hand.

Father.

Take your time – Daniel says.

Hoffmann sits, 
uneasy. 

Twists his cap 
in his hands.

I’ve worked for the post office all my life.

Never lost a letter – 

Then one day, 

I was told – 

a man wasn’t to receive foreign letters.

They came in pale blue envelopes. 
English stamps. Lovely handwriting.

I was told 

to destroy them.

•

Daniel leans forward. 

And?

I couldn’t. It felt wrong. 
So I took them home.

Daniel blinks.

You know that’s illegal.

Yes, but – 

Hoffmann wilts. 

I opened one.

Daniel draws a breath. 
What did it say?

It was from his daughter. 
She’s in England. Afraid to return. 

Worried he’s sick. Or dead.

The words 

hang.

•

What did you do with them?

I delivered them

at night. 

No one saw.

Now I can’t sleep.

Daniel almost rises. 
Almost speaks. 

He doesn’t.

After Hoffmann leaves, 
Daniel dials a number.

Exit applicant. Under surveillance. Possible spy.

He sets 
the phone down. 

Reaches 
for a report sheet.

Withholding correspondence. 
Emotional instability. 

Recommendation: 
Sanction.

The pen 

stops.

The words 

blur.

Enough

Twelve years. That’s how long it’s been. 

Each task a slow hollowing.

Surveillance, secrecy, submission.

•

He took on a seminary post. 

Use your pastoral experience. 

Catch them before they do harm.

He thought of Michael. 

Of being watched. 
Of trust, turned inward.

Still, flickers of satisfaction come. 

A name caught. 
A pattern revealed. 
A student drawn in.

Sometimes, pride. 

He hates 
that part of himself.

•

He stares at the report. 
Hand poised.

It doesn’t move –

Breath shortens. 
Knuckles pale. 

A sound escapes him – 

half sigh, half cry.

Enough.

He shoves 
the paper aside. 

Ink smears. 
The pen falls. 

He presses 
his palms to his temples.

His voice cracks –

This has to stop.

Only the clock replies.

Dry, brittle –

Relentless.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 45

Weighs heavy

Back home, I call Richter. 

A meeting is set.

At Headquarters, an orderly leads me in.

The narrow corridors chill, the lights shine cold.

Richter stands composed behind his desk – gestures for me to sit.

– – –

Daniel. 
Punctual as always. 
I trust your trip was uneventful?

It was.

Good. 
I assume your visit to Michael was enlightening?

The report in my briefcase 
weighs heavy. 

It was illuminating.

He’s concerned
about the collectivisation plans. 

His sermon reflected that openly.

Richter’s expression 

sharpens –

And the congregation?

They trust him. 
He has their ear.

Richter’s fingers steeple 
beneath his chin.

Men like Michael –

their influence
runs deep.

They can inspire
or unsettle. 

That kind of charisma 

requires –

precision.

Fragment 46

Efficiency

Which brings me to your next steps. 

From now on, no more visits here. 
It’s too conspicuous.

I straighten. Relief brushes unease.

How will we – ?

You’ll receive instructions by post. 
Plain envelopes delivered to your flat. 

Each with a task. 

There will also be a direct number. 
Use it only if necessary.

The thought unsettles – 

one task at a time, 
one claim at a time.

And my reports?

Postmarked to a secure address. 
A location that ensures anonymity 

for both of us.

The moment hangs.

I understand – 

though the words catch.

This isn’t about trust, Daniel. 

It’s about 

efficiency.

Fragment 47

Hidden

Richter drums his fingers against the desk. 

Stops. 

One last question – more personal curiosity.

Was there a sculpture of a reading monk in Michael’s church?

– – –

I blink, 

caught –

by the shift.

Yes. 
It’s a beautiful piece.

Richter smiles. 

Interesting. 
It was said to have disappeared during the war.

I hesitate. 

Michael said it was hidden.
To keep it from being confiscated by the authorities.

Richter’s fingers trace 
the edge of his desk. 

Hidden – 

Fascinating. 

Things of beauty 
often vanish in chaos.

Thank you. That’s all. 

He rises.

One more thing. 
You’re doing important work Daniel. 

Your efforts are 

invaluable.

Fragment 48

Thinning

The door clicks shut. The orderly reappears. 

We walk in silence. 

The car waits outside, engine idling. 

The ride back is silent. The city – colourless.

At the supermarket car park, the driver slows without a word. 

I step out. 

The car pulls away, taillights vanishing into dusk.

– – –

I stand alone.

The wind bites.
The streets feel 

altered – 

as if Richter’s shadow 
lies across them.

I reach 
for my keys. 

They hang 

heavy 

in my hand.

Once inside, I realise:

The letters will come

one by one –

And as I carry out 
my orders

I’ll thin 

at the edges –

piece by piece

until what remains 

slips 

from recognition.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 40

Guard it

The wind has turned – tears through the harbour.

Waves slam the breakwater. Spray lashes the quay.

I make for the church.

Cold stings my cheeks.

The church door resists – eases open. 

I step inside.

Warmth wraps around me as I slip into a pew near the back. 

Faces glance, then turn away.

– – –

The organ swells. 
Voices rise. 

The hymn lifts – 

layered, full. 

Prayers follow –

practiced, steady.

Michael steps into the pulpit. 

Be strong and courageous. 
Do not be afraid.

His voice is clear.

I am not a politician. But I must speak.

Ideologies claim virtue, but they cut deep. 
They can erase memory.

These seas,
these fields.

They’ve shaped us. 

They are us. 

No system
should take that from us.

The congregation sits 

riveted. 

Remember your heritage. 

Centuries of labour 

tilled this land
fished these waters 
built this place.

Guard it.

Michael steps down.

•

I sit

caught – 

between awe 
and unease.

He knows the risk.

Each word –

a flare
a challenge

to the State.

It isn’t defiance. 

It’s deeper – 

a faith 

I’ve lost.

Fragment 41

Returned

Gravel crunches as the congregation leaves. 

Voices scatter. Trees sway in the wind.

I linger near the hilltop. 

The sea writhes below. Spray arcs skyward. Above, clouds churn, then part. 

A shaft of light breaks through – a promise shimmering on the water.

– – –

Footsteps approach.

Michael.

He stops beside me. 

Shouts 
into the wind, grinning.

Dramatic, isn’t it? 

God’s presence – 

wild yet steadfast.

The wind bites.

He gestures towards the church. 

Come. I want to show you our treasure.

•

Michael walks ahead. 

Points 
to a bronze statue 
in an alcove, 

its surface lit 
by a single lamp.

Our gem. 
A monk reading by candlelight. 

Look – how the light touches him. 
How the page glows.

I draw closer. 

Shadows gather 
in the folds 
of his robe. 

His gaze down, 

alive – 

witnessing.

Freedom, 
Michael says. 

To read. 
To think. 
To believe. 

Faith gives us that. 

Light in the dark. 
A promise to hold.

The words settle.

It’s beautiful.

Michael gently smoothes 
the monk’s head.

He was hidden 
during the war. 

Smuggled out. 
Now he’s home.  

Returned.

Fragment 42

Conviction

He turns. 

What did you think of the sermon?

I pause –

Admiration knots 
with unease.

It was – powerful. Persuasive.

Michael watches me.

It’s not about persuasion, Daniel.

It’s about conviction. 
Saying what needs to be said.

Conviction.

The word lingers –

I’m not sure I could do that.
Isn’t it dangerous?

His smile holds.

It is. But necessary. 
Faith isn’t safe.

Sometimes the risk 

shows –

where you 
stand

where you’re 
needed.

Fragment 43

Take this with you

He moves to the door. 

I follow.

Outside, 
the wind has eased.

Tugs lightly 
at the trees. 

The sea murmurs below.

I’m glad you came.
Feels right. Doesn’t it?

Yes, it feels – right.

But, even as I say it, 

I’m 
unsure 

who 

the words 
belong to.

His smile deepens. 

Take this with you. 

The strength here.
The faith. 

It’s worth carrying.

I will.

His gaze touches 
a tenderness in me. 

Yet, I don’t know 

how – 

to hold it.

Fragment 44

But what do I see?

The streets are empty. Shadows lengthen. 

My steps fall, measured.

Michael’s voice: Guard those values with your life.

– – –

Guard them. 

But for whom?

Michael sees a path. 

But what do I see?

Richter presses in.
Your efforts are invaluable.

Two forces.

Each claiming virtue. 
Each calling it loyalty.

The station nears. 
The platform is bare. 

The train arrives – 

slow, sure.

I board. 
Sit by the window.

The train moves. 
A steady rhythm.

The village slips past. 

The harbour glints 
between hills.

The sea – 

restless, 
shimmering.

Michael’s words 

drift – 

through me:

Take the strength you’ve seen here.

Strength.

Is that what I carry?
Or something else?

The train sways –

My doubt sways –

Outside, a farmer leans 
into his plough, 

bent against the earth.

I envy him. 

His task 

is known – 

straightforward.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

From Fragment 16

Daniel, I have a small task for you. I’d like you to visit Michael.

Michael’s not involved?

Richter raises a hand – firm. 

Of course not. This is just a pastoral visit, Daniel. Nothing unusual.  

Think of it as visiting an old friend.

•

Fragment 33

I don’t know what I carry.

The train pulls in – brakes screeching, steam hissing in the midday sun. 

I step onto the platform, lungs braced by coastal air.

– – –

Michael waves his hat. 

Shouts –

Daniel!

His handshake
is firm.

He claps
my shoulder.

It's been too long.

The gesture –

familiar,
yet distant.

Michael hasn’t changed. 
He still carries that light. 

And me? 

I don’t know what I carry.

I smile – 

vaguely.

Yes. Far too long.

Come – 
Let’s get you to your room, 
then I’ll show you the harbour.

The room – 
small, above the inn bar.

Overlooks the water. 

Steel-blue 
fading into grey. 

I unpack,
head downstairs.

Fragment 34

A change of scenery

Michael’s voice lifts above the bar’s murmur. 

This is Daniel, he says with a grin. 

Old friend. A priest out west.

– – –

He presses a beer 
into my hand. 

We don’t see each other enough.

Curious eyes turn 
towards me. 

I lift the glass 
with a thin smile. 

Names drift – 

Noah. 
Sarah. 
Birthe. 

Laughter rises – 

scatters. 

I remain on the edge.

Noah beams. So, what brings you here, Father?

I hesitate –

Michael steps in. A much-needed break.

Yes, I echo. 

A change of scenery. 

The beer is sharp.

Fragment 35

Bitter

Later, at a corner table, Michael leans in. 

How’s life, Daniel – really?

Busy, I say. The usual.

He laughs. 

The Church keeps us running, doesn’t it?

It does.

His gaze sharpens. 

You seem tired. Is everything alright?

I trace – 

the glass rim.

Nothing I can’t manage. And you?

Michael brightens. 

The parish is growing. It’s rewarding.

I nod. 

Well, you’re here now, he says, raising his glass. 

To old friends.

To old friends, I echo.

The toast tastes –

bitter.

Fragment 36

The word faith lodges

We walk through the village – narrow lanes, drying nets, the briny air. 

I trail behind Michael’s sure pace.

Children laugh. Michael greets passersby, easy in his stride.

At the harbour, boats bob in sunlit water. 

This place is alive, he says. 

Sea and people need each other. There’s faith in that.

– – –

I nod, 

watching – 

the tide. 

The word faith 

lodges –

Michael slows. 

Daniel.
You can always talk to me.

The moment 

opens – 

almost.

Richter’s voice presses – 

close. 

Duty. Stability.

I know, I say. 

Faintly.

Michael touches 
my shoulder

warm – 

brief.

Then he glances at his watch. 

Tea! We’ll be late.

Fragment 37

I split open

Michael’s house sits above the village, windows bright. 

The smell of baked bread greets us at the door. 

His wife’s welcome is gentle, assured. 

Their daughter peeks out, laughs – vanishes.

– – –

Once –

I’d have laughed too.

Michael pours the tea.

Thanks for reaching out to Richter. He helped, for a time.

Michael nods.

Hesitates –

But I was worried. What happened?

The dreams. The nightmares. 

I lash out. 

The drinking. 

Most days I manage. 

Sometimes –

I split open.

Fragment 38

We don’t talk

Michael lays 
a hand 
on my arm.

From the garden, 
children’s laughter 

drifts in.

How alone are you, Daniel? 
Anyone to talk to? Richter?

No. He’s efficient. 
Not… personal.

He was a good officer. 
Cool head.

We don’t talk. 
Not since the detention.

Michael doesn’t press. 

Life happens.

You know, Daniel, you should come here more often. 
Share this place with Ruth and me.

That’s generous. I’d like that.

I need to work on tomorrow’s sermon.

The parish is uneasy. 

Whispers about the State. 

We may not be able to speak freely much longer.

Fragment 39

I didn’t

That night, I sit by the window. 

The sea whispers against the shore.

Michael’s voice lingers – 

his kindness, his friendship.

– – –

I should 
have told him. 

I didn’t.

I could have – 

A word. 
A glimpse. 

The wind buffets 
the window. 

My reflection wavers.

I shiver.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Voiceover by Chris Heape

Fragment 30

Flares burst

Daniel sits on the edge of the bed. 

Shoulders drawn. Eyes shadowed.

The nightmares continue. 

Michael is there – steadfast.

He rests a hand on Daniel’s shoulder.

You don’t have to carry this alone.

Honestly, Michael –
I don’t even know what it is I’m carrying.

I write now and then – to sort things out.

Daniel looks up. Write?

Light gives shape to shadow. 
Writing can do that too. 
Doesn’t fix the dark – but helps name it.

Daniel's gaze drifts – 

Flares burst.

Fields.
Mud.
Trenches.

Michael watches –

Daniel, what brought you here?

I’m not sure – 

I was a combat medic during the war. 

I was good at comforting the dying.

Fragment 31

Daniel stares at a blank page in his notebook.

Pen poised.

He scrawls a few lines. 

They seem hollow – thin.

He tries again.

The handwriting sprawls. 

Words falter. 

– – –

A flare bursts –

Faces shift.
Fog.

Voices carry.
Mud.

Anzio.
Salerno.
Monte Cassino.

How to silence these echoes?

Still the thunder that splits my mind?

He stops.

Rips the page 
out of his notebook.

Crushes it.

Hurls the notebook. 

The crumpled page 
trembles in his hand. 

Fragment 32

I can’t forget

The door opens. Michael steps in.

Rough going?

Daniel laughs, bitter. It’s pointless.

Michael gestures to the crumpled page.

May I read it?

Daniel hesitates.

Michael reads. 

This is –

Daniel cuts him off.

How do you write about things that shouldn’t exist – make sense of it all?

Michael replies calmly.

Maybe it doesn’t need to make sense. Maybe it’s enough to name it.

Daniel eyes him.

You really think that helps?

Michael nods.

These names?

Daniel’s gaze dims.

They’re battles.

I can’t forget those who died in my arms.

His voice breaks. 

He lifts his hands

shaking –

So much blood has flowed through these.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Gathering

Early morning

Outside, the wren trills through the dew-soft quiet of early morning – her song threading the mist: quick, bright, jubilant.

Inside, you stir – not from sleep, but from the hush that follows the warmth of being held – of belonging.

She asks softly, “Do you hear her – the wren?”

He, half-whispering –

“Like she’s stitching the morning back together.”

He turns towards her and lightly touches her collarbone. 

His fingers trace her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her chin.

– – –

My touch lifts 
your pulse, 

draws you –

to where hush breaks, 
to where breath trembles 

into bloom –

We ripple through 
each other.

You burn 

within me – 

Not fire,

but a slow, 
steady glow.

Your eyes shine.

We draw near,

ease back. 

Drift –

between 

reverence 

and desire.

•

We lie close now, held by a hush quieter than sleep.

She tucks a strand of hair 
from his forehead, rests 

her palm against his chest,
presses into his gentle strength.

She watches him

wonders –

It feels 
almost too sacred 

to name.

She draws 
his hand to her breast, places 

her own over his. 
Her fingers rest lightly

receiving –

She closes her eyes. 

The sound of his voice

not just the words –

settles over her skin.

He sees me. He is with me. And I’m here with him.

Outside, the birdcall fades. 
Inside, the sea air lingers.

•

A gust presses 
in through the open 

window, billowing 
the curtains into a muslin veil.

The garden blurs to a haze –

The room gathers 
the salt-sweet breath 

of sea and air.

On the windowsill, 
ripe peaches nestle 

in a white porcelain bowl. 

They glow amber-red 
in the morning light.

The curve –

of your bare shoulder 
echoes theirs.

•

Afternoon

A brittle light blazes silver off the water, flickers white through the shutters – fans across the tiles before fading into the corners of the room.

– – –

I leave the window 
and return 

to lie beside you.

Your naked back 
glistens moist 

beneath my hands.

There is almost no sound – only your steady breathing.

The ceiling fan whirs 
above us, 

slow, constant, 
cooling the heat.

My eyes trace –

the slip of your curves.

Your neck

Your hips.

You stir –

A slight breeze sifts 
a cool into the room, 

pulls –

us into a long, 
languid drifting.  
  
•  

Evening
  
Moist pearls slip down the fluted glasses, seeping a shadow of damp onto the white damask tablecloth.

From the terrace, the evening air is cool. 

White gauze curtains stir in the sea-hung light, thinning it to a misty blue.

– – –

As you turn 
towards the sea, 

you place your hand 
on mine. 

Your neck glows 
in the lamplight. 

Yesterday’s kisses

rest.

•

Night

We walk to the beach. 

The waves call 
the deep to life 

and we listen –

Songs glint 

phosphor-clear 
as they wash ashore. 

I gather 
its lilt 

into my hands, 

pour 

its lull into yours.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 26

I Feel Held

The breeze carries a shimmer of laughter across the vicarage garden. The tablecloth lifts at the corners. A lemon peel twists in a carafe of water. The children, Emma and Beth chase each other around a bench. 

Lisa’s hand rests lightly on Daniel’s sleeve as he bends to speak with Michael. 

Arne leans back, eyes briefly closed – soaking in the warmth.

Lisa turns, watching the others – the way laughter threads through them. 

– – –

A thought surfaces, 
unbidden.

This isn’t a show 
or a dream. 

It is simply here –

All of it.

And I am part of it 
as it unfolds 

around us, through us.

I don’t feel watched.
I feel held – 

as if a new kinship 

is gathering –

Gentler now, warmer.

Daniel catches 
the sound of laughter 

rippling 

from the far end 
of the garden. 

It sounds – 

different. Or maybe 
he’s hearing it anew.

Michael moves assuredly – 
plates balanced 

in steady hands, 
sleeves rolled up. 

Someone hums 
a tune from childhood. 

Ruth brushes crumbs 
from her lap. 

Maren is barefoot now – 
her heels abandoned 

somewhere in the grass. 

Daniel watches 
Michael pour drinks, 

Maren sinking 
onto a bench, 

Ruth tucking 
a blanket around 

a dozing Emma. 

Everything 

unhurried –

present.

Fragment 27

The Words Settle

Arne rises slowly and lifts his glass. 

The group stills – expectant, open. 

Ruth folds a napkin in her lap without looking down.

"Daniel, you've been a breath of fresh air. Watchful, kind. Present.”

He glances toward Lisa.

“Then Lisa came. You changed. Not your conviction. Not your strength.
You grew brighter."

– – –

Lisa touches 
the base of her glass. 

Her breath steadies.

Now named 

with 

Daniel.

The words settle. 

Fragment 28

A Quiet Sharing

The meal winds down.

Cake sits untouched 
on one plate. 

Napkins slump 
into loose shapes. 

The elderflower jug 
stands empty. 

Woodsmoke lingers – not thick, just there. 

Overhead, the sky begins 
to reach for dusk.

At the outdoor tap, 
Daniel washes 

his hands – the water 
is colder than expected. 

Maren wipes down 
a bench where red juice 

has stained the slats. 

Ruth lifts a sleeping Emma 
and carries her into the house.

Near the hedge, 
Arne lights a lantern. 

It flickers once, 
then steadies.

Michael wraps 
leftovers in waxed paper,

each fold slow, precise.

•

The sky deepens to violet. 
The sea air sharpens slightly. 

Gravel crunches 
as the taxi pulls in.

The sea is invisible now – only its wash remains.

Lisa slips into the back seat. 
Daniel follows, closes the door. 

The taillights glow 
against the grass.

Michael and Arne remain 
at the gate, watching. 

Ruth pulls her shawl closer. 
Maren’s hands stay tucked 

in her pockets. 
Beth waves, half-asleep.

No one speaks. It isn’t needed.

The wedding behind them.
The summerhouse ahead.

Between them

a quiet

sharing.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 21

Transfixed

The church stills as Lisa enters, Maren at her side.

She walks steadily, bouquet resting lightly against her arm – her shoes whispering across the stone.

– – –

At the nave’s midpoint, 
she pauses. 

A glance 
at the flowers 

in her hands, 
the fall of her dress. 

She lifts
her eyes 

finds – 

Daniel. 

She waits –

briefly.

Daniel stands 

transfixed – 

She’s not just beautiful

She’s clear – 

Steady – 

In a light 
entirely her own.

Lisa stops 
in front of Michael. 

Daniel steps forward 
to join her. 

Their eyes meet –

Stillness gathers – 

Held – 

as breath 
before speaking.

Fragment 22

Unfolds

Michael’s voice is not commanding, but anchoring. 

The ceremony unfolds without embellishment.

– – –

Lisa’s hands clasp 
briefly.

Her fingers tighten 
once, then ease.

Daniel glimpses her.

The fall 
of her hair 

tucked 
behind one ear, 

her eyes lowered.

Michael asks: “Do you – ”

Daniel answers 
before the echo fades. 

Lisa replies 
softer.

The vows unfold.

Fragment 23

Adjusts

The rings pass through Michael’s hands – gold, unadorned. Bright.

– – –

Lisa extends 
her hand. 

Daniel slides 
the ring on.

It catches slightly. 

He doesn’t force it. 

Adjusts – 

It fits.

She traces 
its edge 

once. 

Lisa takes 
Daniel’s ring 

offers it to him. 

Her fingers linger 
a moment

before – 

they release.

Daniel meets her gaze.

He reaches.

She stills – 

her hand finds his.

No kiss. Just contact.

And for now, 

it is enough.

Fragment 24

Quiet. Unposed.

Michael rests a hand on each of them. 

Words only they can hear.

A private blessing of their marriage.

– – –

Daniel glances

drawn – 

to the curve 
of Lisa’s neck, 

the light 
on her cheek, 

her lips 
faintly parted.

Then the kiss.

Quiet. Unposed. 

They turn 
towards the aisle. 

The doors stand open.

Fragment 25

Unhidden

They emerge not in spectacle, but into shared calm. 

The salt wind greets them. 

– – –

Their hands find 
each other

no hesitation now.

They hold –

They’ve never been 
more visible 

as they step
into their light.

Daniel catches 
a petal as it loosens 

from the bouquet
holds it for a moment.

Lisa laughs – 

tucks it into 
his breast pocket.

He leans in –

their foreheads 
touch.

They kiss. 

Brief –

Sure – 

Unhidden.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 18

There's no instruction for this part.

The church is empty except for Daniel, Arne and Michael.
Sunlight filters into the nave. 

Daniel stands near the alter steps.

His bishop’s cope has been folded and laid aside in the vestry – mitre and staff resting beside it. 

He wears his clerical collar and dark suit.

– – –

Strange, the stillness 
after the sermon.

The words have left me, 
and yet they stay

gathered – 

in the stones of this place, 
bound into its hush.

He runs a hand down 
the front of his jacket, 

smoothing nothing.

Michael watches Daniel
as he paces back and forth.

His expression warms.

He’s seen this kind of waiting before – 

men momentarily undone 
by the simplicity of love.

There’s no instruction for this part.

No liturgy 
to tell me 
what to do 

with my hands 
while I wait 

to marry the woman 
who changed my life.

Fragment 19

Threshold

The time has come.

Ruth kisses Lisa’s cheek – lightly, without ceremony. 

“Let’s go.”

– – –

Lisa nods. 

No words rise – 

she wouldn’t speak 
even if she could.

They move down the stairs

unhurried – 

Maren walks beside her, 
their hands brushing 

briefly in passing.

No father to give her away. 

But that was never 
what this would be.

She is not being given.

She goes –

of her own accord.

At the door, the breeze lifts 
the edge of her dress. 

The sea air is cooler now. 

The path ahead is short, 

but it holds – 

a threshold.

Across the way, the church waits. 

Its doors stand open. 

Light spills from them.

Lisa steps forward –

Once. 

Then again.

Fragment 20

Grace

The church is quiet – except for Daniel’s pacing.

The waiting stretches. 

– – –

Daniel shifts 
his weight,

stops himself. 

Arne catches the movement, 
chuckles. 

Daniel mutters to himself.

I’ve sat beside 
the wounded and dying. 

I’ve buried men. 

Offered comfort 
when no words 

could reach. 

And yet – 

this undoes me 
more than I imagined.

Because – 

this isn’t duty, 
but joy.

Grace – 

Michael walks over, adjusting his stole. His voice is low.

“You alright?”

Daniel nods once. 

Michael smiles. 

Rests a hand 
on Daniel’s shoulder. 

Brief –

Steadying –

Michael steps away.

Faint sounds outside 
the church.

Children’s laughter, 
women’s voices.

The first rise 
of melody on the organ.

Daniel turns
toward the entrance.

She’s coming. 

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 18

There's no instruction for this part.

The church is empty except for Daniel, Arne and Michael.
Sunlight filters into the nave. 

Daniel stands near the alter steps.

His bishop’s cope has been folded and laid aside in the vestry – mitre and staff resting beside it. 

He wears his clerical collar and dark suit.

– – –

Strange, the stillness 
after the sermon.

The words have left me, 
and yet they stay

gathered – 

in the stones of this place, 
bound into its hush.

He runs a hand down 
the front of his jacket, 

smoothing nothing.

Michael watches Daniel
as he paces back and forth.

His expression warms.

He’s seen this kind of waiting before – 

men momentarily undone 
by the simplicity of love.

There’s no instruction for this part.

No liturgy 
to tell me 
what to do 

with my hands 
while I wait 

to marry the woman 
who changed my life.

Fragment 19

Threshold

The time has come.

Ruth kisses Lisa’s cheek – lightly, without ceremony. 

“Let’s go.”

– – –

Lisa nods. 

No words rise – 

she wouldn’t speak 
even if she could.

They move down the stairs

unhurried – 

Maren walks beside her, 
their hands brushing 

briefly in passing.

No father to give her away. 

But that was never 
what this would be.

She is not being given.

She goes –

of her own accord.

At the door, the breeze lifts 
the edge of her dress. 

The sea air is cooler now. 

The path ahead is short, 

but it holds – 

a threshold.

Across the way, the church waits. 

Its doors stand open. 

Light spills from them.

Lisa steps forward –

Once. 

Then again.

Fragment 20

Grace

The church is quiet – except for Daniel’s pacing.

The waiting stretches. 

– – –

Daniel shifts 
his weight,

stops himself. 

Arne catches the movement, 
chuckles. 

Daniel mutters to himself.

I’ve sat beside 
the wounded and dying. 

I’ve buried men. 

Offered comfort 
when no words 

could reach. 

And yet – 

this undoes me 
more than I imagined.

Because – 

this isn’t duty, 
but joy.

Grace – 

Michael walks over, adjusting his stole. His voice is low.

“You alright?”

Daniel nods once. 

Michael smiles. 

Rests a hand 
on Daniel’s shoulder. 

Brief –

Steadying –

Michael steps away.

Faint sounds outside 
the church.

Children’s laughter, 
women’s voices.

The first rise 
of melody on the organ.

Daniel turns
toward the entrance.

She’s coming. 

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 12

Pressed. Polished.

Ahead, a restaurant hums.

The officer leads him to a back alcove – purposeful, unhurried.

He doesn’t ask if Daniel wants breakfast. Just orders.

Daniel lowers himself into the chair. 

His posture slackens. 

He keeps his hands on the table, sleeves tugged just enough to hide the marks.

– – –

He reaches for the coffee. 
The cup warms his palm,

more anchor than comfort.

Across from him 

an immaculate uniform. 
Pressed. Polished. 

The man inside it 

composed – 

He sips slowly 

eyes on Daniel –

watchful, unreadable.

•

“This is kind of you – but who are you? 

You mentioned Michael.”

The officer leans back. 

“Lieutenant Stein Richter Beck. 

But call me Richter.”

“Michael contacted me. 

I work in State Security. 

We served together in the war.”

Fragment 13

I – don’t know anymore

“How do you manage it?” Daniel asks. 

“After the war, I mean. I can’t let go of it – or maybe it won’t let go of me.”

Richter studies him. “Is that why this happens?” 

His gesture towards Daniel’s hands is slight.

“Or is there more?”

Daniel doesn’t answer right away. 

“Maybe,” he whispers. “I – don’t know anymore.”

“What keeps you going, Daniel, or have you already lost the thread?”

The silence deepens.

“Michael asked me to look out for you. Why don’t we go somewhere quieter? My office is nearby. You can get cleaned up. We’ll talk there.”

Daniel hesitates, then gives a slow nod.

Richter settles the bill.

– – –

Outside 
the restaurant’s warmth 

dissolves. 

The cool air 

sharpens – 

At the threshold 

Daniel lingers – 

watches Richter 
move ahead 

with steady purpose.

A current of unease stirs. 

A thread loosens –

Yet he follows.

Not towards certainty – 

but towards 

what comes next.

Fragment 14

Believing

After meeting Richter, the euphoria wanes.

Sleep offers no solace. Dreams pull – vivid, harsh.

I wake, chest heaving, slick with sweat. 

A chill clings to me. 

Richter’s words loop relentlessly.

– – –

The State needs you, Daniel

Church and State working in unison

We see what you can be 

That’s faith, Daniel

believing –

in someone’s potential.

People trust you 

you can guide them. 

Isn’t that –

what you’ve been searching for?

•

Faith – 

no longer rooted 

in God – 

but in action 

in potential. 

It unsettles me – 

this fracture in my belief. 

But it gleams –

in the dark 

impossible 

to ignore.  

Fragment 15

Searching

I sit by the window. Rain lashes the glass. 

Beyond, the sky hangs distant – grey, hollow.

Endless arguments circle, wear me thin.

Why is it so hard to ring Richter?

– – –

I shake my head. 
My hands clench. 

What – 

am I searching for?

I’ve served before. 

Purpose. Clarity.

My hand hovers 
over the telephone. 

I lean back. 
Watch the rain.

Church and State aren’t separate. 

Strengthen one, and the other follows.

Protect the State, and you protect the Church. 

Undermine the State, and the Church falters.

I repeat it to myself

firmly – 

Believing it. 

Needing –

to believe it.

•

The clock ticks – 

Each thought 
needles.

I reach for the phone. 
My breath 

quickens – 

shallow, uneven.

Pick it up.

The receiver is 
cool in my hand. 

I dial – 

halfway.

For a moment, 
relief stirs. 

A strange certainty.

I stop.

•

I can’t think. 
My heart hammers.

I grip 
the phone tighter. 

Force 
my fingers to move.

I dial –

The line clicks. 

Richter’s voice
brisk, warm.

“Daniel. Good to hear from you.”

My words halter – 

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

“And?” Richter’s tone sharpens.

“I think you’re right.”

The words settle. 

I settle –

“About working together. Church and State.”

Doubt edges in –

Richter responds
smooth, assured. 

“I’m glad to hear that, Daniel. Truly.”

Then firmer 
sharper. 

“Let’s not waste time. I’ll send a car for you Tuesday. 

And Daniel – 

Don’t wear your pastor collar. 

Let’s keep this informal.”

•

The line goes dead.

I lower the receiver. 

My hands tremble. 

A numbness 

settles in –

I turn back 
to the window. 

My reflection smears 
in the rain-streaked glass.

A sense of purpose stirs – 

ill-formed. 

But insistent.

Fragment 16

Nothing unusual

Richter greets me with a firm handshake. “Daniel. Welcome back.”

His tone is cordial. His smile measured. 

Though his gaze stays cool.

He gestures to the chair across from him. 

I sit. The leather is stiff against my back. 

It matches the atmosphere: formal, unyielding.

•

“I have a small task for you.

I’d like you to visit Michael.”

“Michael’s not involved?”

Richter raises a hand – firm. 

“Of course not. 

This is just a pastoral visit, Daniel. 

Nothing unusual.  

Think of it as visiting an old friend.”

•

I hesitate. 

Caution hovers – 

Could I say no?

Richter watches. 

Expectant –

Patient –

I nod. 

•

Richter smiles. 

“Good.”

He stands, gesturing towards the door.

“Have a good trip. 

Call me when you’re back.”

Fragment 17

The message is clear

Outside, the car waits. But it doesn’t take me home.

Instead it stops in a supermarket parking lot in the centre of town. 

The driver doesn’t explain. He doesn’t need to.

The message is clear.

– – –

I step out. 

The engine fades 
as the car pulls away

leaving me alone –

Concrete stretches 
wide and bare.

The heat 

shimmers –

the edges of the lot 
into a wavering mirage. 

Sweat gathers 
at the back of my neck. 

I loosen my shirt collar 
but the heat clings.

My unease thickens –

Overhead, 
a gull circles once

its shadow – 

wings across the ground.

It shrieks.

And, I wonder –

What 

have I agreed to?

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 7

A Beginning

There’s no triumph in Daniel’s bearing. Only the question – had the sermon gone too far, or not far enough?

Yet he rests, knowing a truth has been spoken aloud.

The breeze shifts, salting the air.

The sea beyond the headlands remains steady, unchanged by what has shifted ashore.

This isn’t aftermath.

It’s a beginning.

•

Lisa stands beside Maren and Ruth, surprised by the warmth surrounding them – not for Daniel alone, but for herself.

A few women pass. One brushes Lisa’s arm, another presses her hand briefly, then moves on. 

Their glances linger – not with curiosity, but recognition.

– – –

She is seen –
not as the housekeeper.

Not even as the woman
marrying the bishop.

But as someone
who has a place

in this moment.

Her gaze lifts –

and finds Daniel’s

across the courtyard.

They hold
each other’s gaze.

No smile.
No signal.

Just shared.

Then,
each turns.

Lisa toward the vicarage.

Daniel back toward the church.

Fragment 8

The Bouquet

They step from the brightness outside into the rectory.

The door clicks shut behind them – gentle, but final.

They make their way upstairs. 

Faint echoes of laughter and chatter drift.

– – –

Lisa stands 
before the mirror 

in Ruth’s bedroom. 

Lace curtains soften 
the late morning light, 

casting dappled shadows 
across the bed, where 

the white satin dress lies 

waiting –

Maren lifts 
the dress

hangs it from 
the wardrobe door. 

Her fingers brush 
the bodice. 

At the windowsill, 
Ruth unwraps 

the bouquet – 

a collection of meadow 
flowers and grasses

just shy of unruly.

Ruth leans forward,

breathes –

gently – 

over the bouquet. 

The gesture stills Lisa.

So little is said. 

Fragment 9

Tending to

Lisa’s gaze shifts to the dress.

Her breath slows – drawn inward, suspended.

“You alright?” Ruth asks – her voice low, careful not to intrude on Lisa’s quiet.

Lisa nods.

– – –

Maren steps closer. 

Her fingers find 
the first button 

at Lisa’s collar.

Moving gently, 

deliberately,

she unfastens them 

one by one. 

No haste. No explanation. Only care.

Lisa’s gaze lowers – 

not in modesty, 
but in recognition.

I’ve always dressed myself. 
Armoured myself.

This is different –

A yielding 
to what is.

Of being tended to –

Not as a bride. 
But as a woman 

being seen –

by other women.

She closes her eyes.

Fragment 10

Resolve

Maren folds the blouse and lays it gently on the chair. 

Lisa steps out of her skirt – stands in her white slip – still, unadorned.

Not exposed. Present.

Ruth moves behind her, brushing her hair in long, unhurried strokes. 

Each stroke loosens – tension, memory, breath. 

Maren adjusts the hairpins on the bureau. 

Their clink is the only sound.

– – –

Maren lifts 
the dress from its hanger 

with a care that borders 
on reverence. 

Lisa reaches for it. 

Doesn’t put it on, just holds it.

The satin

whispers –

in her hands.

The weight surprises her.

It isn’t fragile. 

It’s formed –

measured, precise.

Her fingers trace 
the hem. The fabric 

carries more 
than shape. 

It carries meaning –

No veil. No adornment. 
Just form, light

and resolve.

There’s a tremor 
in her fingers. 

But not from doubt –

More from knowing 
what this asks of her.

To step forward – 

Be visible –

She glances 
toward the mirror.

Her silhouette stands 

half-lit – 

dress in hand, figure poised.

Her eyes meet her own.

And for the first time 

in years – 

she doesn’t look away.

Fragment 11

Arrival

Maren steps forward, takes the dress from her.

“Shall we?”

Lisa nods.

She lifts her arms.

The dress slips over her shoulders. Cool at first, then warming to her skin. Ruth fastens the final hook, fingers practised and sure. The motion is brief, but not hurried.

– – –

Lisa turns to face the mirror.

The sunlight 
has shifted. 

The glass catches 
only part of her 

at first – 

shoulder, collarbone, 
the dress across her waist.

Then her whole figure –

What she sees is not transformation.

It is arrival.

No borrowed glow. 
No veil of radiance. 

Just her – 

clear-eyed, held upright 
by a composure 

she didn't realise was there.

The dress rests 
lightly off her shoulders. 

Mid-length –

its classic A-lines 

are neither austere 
nor adorned.

She hadn’t expected it 
to feel like this.

As if the shape itself 
had been chosen 

not to impress, 
but to affirm 

what had long been hers.

Ruth stands behind her. 
Maren, to the side. 

No words pass 
between them. 

Lisa feels them near –

not helpers, but witnesses.

Not to a performance.

To a becoming –

Lisa smiles faintly, 
but doesn’t turn 

from the mirror. 

She’s still gathering 
what has just passed.

She twirls slightly 
from side to side

just to check.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Fragment 3

Stumbling

We’re in our final seminary semester, and still – so much eludes me.

– – –

Michael shines, 
effortless, certain.

I stumble. 
Always stumbling.

He stands in a light 
I can’t seem to reach.

Others are 
drawn to it. 

To him.

And I –
I trail behind. 

Chasing shadows –

Kindness flows from him.
Mine falters. Folds inward.

He moves easily among others.
I withdraw from others.

•

But a plan – that I understand.
A map. A rhythm.

Prayers, bells, the quiet rites.
They steady me.

Michael doesn’t need 
the ground 

I cling to.

He moves by faith, 
I by function.

He leaps, 
I hesitate.

He preaches.

I sit – 

silent.

•

I thought there’d be a sign.

A word. A call.

But there’s nothing.

So I walk –

Hope a path 

might – 

reveal itself.

Fragment 4

No longer there

A clanging echoes from far off – metal scraping metal. Keys jangle. The sounds claw – sudden, sharp – then fall away.

The cell air hangs thick – mildew, iron. A cough stirs in the corner – wet, jagged – splitting the gloom. 

Voices murmur nearby, slurred with sleep and drink, fragments of last night unraveling.

He stirs. 

The wall presses cold at his back. Clothes damp, skin soured. 

Shadows shift. Faces blur. Nothing holds.

He lowers his gaze – hands bloodied, knuckles torn. 

Throat raw. The taste of metal clings.

– – –

I drift – 
deeper into a dream.

I stand 
at the smithy’s door – your door.

Watch how you carry 
your weight. 

How you command 
the blacksmith’s craft.

Your soot-black hands grip 
the hammer in one, 

a tonged rod of fire 
in the other. 

You’re poised –

You tap the hammer 

once, twice – 

on the anvil before 
lifting it to strike.

Sparks flare. 

Steam lifts. 

The iron yields.

Father
if you were here

I’d hold your hands, 
calloused, curled stiff 

around the hammer 
that’s no longer there.

I ran from your funeral –

ran from the brass-band hymn 
that lifted worship into the sky.

The music fades.

My father slips from me.

Fragment 5

Clicks shut

A baton scrapes the bars. 

Keys rattle.

“Pastor Daniel!”

The name cuts down the corridor.

“Pastor, wake up. On your feet. Someone’s here to see you.”

The sound of Pastor lands sharp. 

He flinches.

He coughs, stands

fingers fumbling 
at his sleeves. 

Shame clings 
to his sweat. 

He moves to the bars. 

The corridor swims – 

Boots echo
measured, deliberate.

The guard steps aside.

An officer approaches. 

Authority wound tight 
in the cut of his uniform.

“Pastor?”

He squints. “Who’s asking?” 

His voice rasps. 
He grips the bars.

“Someone on your behalf – Pastor Michael. Let’s get you out of here. You owe him that much.”

A key turns. The gate scrapes open.

The corridor stretches – 

longer now, unfamiliar. 

He walks –

Slow. 

Stiff.

The outer door flings open,
light and cold rush in at once.

He lifts a hand, 
eyes narrowing.

Behind him, 

the door clicks shut.

Fragment 6

Unmoored

He could refuse. 

Step back.

But there’s – 

no way back.

The night is still in him. 

So he follows the officer into the morning light.

They walk in silence.

Mid-step, Daniel falters. 

One hand brushes 
a rough wall for balance. 

The air thins. 
The ground shifts. 

A dull weight 

stirs –

in him. 

Not panic.

Just the 

slow 

rise

of being 

unmoored.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.

Gathering

Early morning

Outside, the wren trills through the dew-soft quiet of early morning – her song threading the mist: quick, bright, jubilant.

Inside, you stir – not from sleep, but from the hush that follows the warmth of being held – of belonging.

She asks softly, “Do you hear her – the wren?”

He, half-whispering –

“Like she’s stitching the morning back together.”

He turns toward her and lightly touches her collarbone. 

His fingers trace her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her chin.

– – –

My touch lifts 
your pulse, 

draws you –

to where hush breaks, 
to where breath trembles 

into bloom –

We ripple through 
each other.

You burn 

within me – 

Not fire,

but a slow, 
steady glow.

Your eyes shine.

We draw near,

ease back. 

Drift –

between 

reverence 

and desire.

•

We lie close now, held by a hush quieter than sleep.

She tucks a strand of hair 
from his forehead, rests 

her palm against his chest,
presses into his gentle strength.

She watches him

wonders –

It feels 
almost too sacred 

to name.

She draws 
his hand to her breast, places 

her own over his. 
Her fingers rest lightly

receiving –

She closes her eyes. 

The sound of his voice

not just the words –

settles over her skin.

He sees me. He is with me. And I’m here with him.

Outside, the birdcall fades. 
Inside, the sea air lingers.

•

A gust presses 
in through the open 

window, billowing 
the curtains into a muslin veil.

The garden blurs to a haze –

The room gathers 
the salt-sweet breath 

of sea and air.

On the windowsill, 
ripe peaches nestle 

in a white porcelain bowl. 

They glow amber-red 
in the morning light.

The curve –

of your bare shoulder 
echoes theirs.

•

Afternoon

A brittle light blazes silver off the water, flickers white through the shutters – fans across the tiles before fading into the corners of the room.

– – –

I leave the window 
and return 

to lie beside you.

Your naked back 
glistens moist 

beneath my hands.

There is almost no sound – only your steady breathing.

The ceiling fan whirs 
above us, 

slow, constant, 
cooling the heat.

My eyes trace –

the slip of your curves.

Your neck

Your hips.

You stir –

A slight breeze sifts 
a cool into the room, 

pulls –

us into a long, 
languid drifting.  
  
•  

Evening
  
Moist pearls slip down the fluted glasses, seeping a shadow of damp onto the white damask tablecloth.

From the terrace, the evening air is cool. 

White gauze curtains stir in the sea-hung light, thinning it to a misty blue.

– – –

As you turn 
towards the sea, 

you place your hand 
on mine. 

Your neck glows 
in the lamplight. 

Yesterday’s kisses

rest.

•

Night

We walk to the beach. 

The waves call 
the deep to life 

and we listen –

Songs glint 

phosphor-clear 
as they wash ashore. 

I gather 
its lilt 

into my hands, 

pour 

its lull into yours.

Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments

Over many years, my writing has increasingly become an inquiry into those moments of everyday life that quietly shape us, yet often pass unnoticed. 

A gesture. A silence. A glance. A hand resting on another’s shoulder. The small relational events through which meaning gradually comes into being.

How can I explore this further using lyrical, literary experiment?

This new series, Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments, continues that inquiry through new works composed primarily from my novel Quiet Light. They are not intended to retell its narrative, but to distil moments that can stand independently, allowing each fragment to reveal its own quality of attention. 

From time to time, other fragments, sharing the same emphasis on the relational, will be composed from other sources.

Each fragment asks a slightly different question, yet all return to the same underlying inquiry:

What becomes perceptible when we attend faithfully to the ordinary moments through which our lives are quietly transformed?

My hope is that the Rimnír Quiet Light Fragments might gently draw our attention towards something equally easy to overlook:

The quiet dignity of human presence.