The fog hung low over Gaelcholáiste Reachrann, blurring the edges of leaky prefabs that loomed like forgotten tombstones in the gray dawn. Rain trickled down their cracked exteriors, filling the frigid classrooms with an eerie dampness. Costumed students huddled in the makeshift yard, their breaths visible in the biting air, while teachers surveyed them like spectral figures beneath an ominous sky. The scent of something burnt wafted from the awful kitchen, where a rusted oven groaned with each passing minute.
Through half open windows of the old art room, flickers of a shadow darted, suggesting the wildlife lurking within—a watchful pair of eyes here, the rustle of feathers there. The gaunt faces of students, painted like ghouls, reflected a deeper horror; they had grown up waiting in these crumbling walls, haunted by the empty promises of a building that never came.
Whispers spread through the crowd: was the delay a mere oversight, or something more sinister—a curse laid on the Irish language itself?