One rainy night as he lay restlessly in his bed, Shamroc hears footsteps approaching from the hallway outside of his apartment. Remaining vigilant at all times, as if blessed with a sixth sense for alarming and dangerous situations, he grabs the 9mm gun that he placed under his pillow two hours before and immediately rises. Preparing for the worst, he sprints quietly but tactically behind the couch in the living room, raising and aiming his weapon around every corner on the way and then towards the front door.

With every second that passes, Shamroc's heart beats faster as if synchronized with the raindrops beating down on the building's roof. Adrenaline rushes throughout Shamroc's body. The steps draw nearer. He thinks to himself,

"Maybe I'm overreacting. Am I being too paranoid? What if it's just my neighbor coming home from the local pub?"

He tries reassuring himself with hopeful thoughts but his gut tells him that something is wrong. Quickly, he becomes impatient, wanting to investigate the possible threat outside but indecisive of what to do next because of his intuitive feelings. The footsteps begin to slow in their pace and come to a stop in front of Shamroc's place. He now has no doubts that his judgment is dead on. Attempting to stay calm but still with the gun in his hand shaking violently, he waits hopefully for a knock on the door but instead watches as someone tries turning the doorknob to enter his home. As the doorknob clicks, unable to be opened because of the lock, he hesitates no longer and pulls on the trigger.Expecting a loud bang and a kickback from the gun, he is surprised that neither occurs. It jams. Immediately afterwards, the door is kicked in by the person from outside. The hinges come clean off and the door flops on the floor. Wind blows into the apartment around the shadowed figure standing in the empty door frame. Having nothing to defend himself, Shamroc sits stunned by the turnout of his misfortune. The unknown man walks in and briefly searches the apartment. Without delay, he locates Shamroc.

The person breaking in lifts up his pistol. Sweat pours from Shamroc's face, puzzled with many questions that he feels never will be answered. As lightning flashes temporarily illuminating the apartment, the identity of the intruder is revealed. Shamroc, in shock and disbelief, gives a baffled stare at his potential murderer. Lips trembling in anger, Shamroc mouths the words "why" to the man standing in front of him. Smiling, the intruder points his gun to Shamroc and shoots...

Gasping for breath, Shamroc jolts upright by thunder that rolls past in a storm. Rattling his house in the city of Los Angeles, he looks around in the darkened room. Wide eyed, he suddenly realizes that his encounter with the man was only a dream. Cooling off and laying back down, Shamroc finds it difficult to fall back to sleep. All he is able to remember is the face of the man that shot him in his dream. The face is very familiar to Shamroc. It takes him back to his old friend he once knew in his homeland of Ireland. This, in addition to the nightmare being based on a real life occurrence, made it impossible for him to rest but he is uncertain of what to do. Shamroc lies on his bed, eyes transfixed on the ceiling fan circling above. His mind begins to drift off. Thoughts of the past flood his mind.

The clock on the wall ticks away as time passes by. In hope of refreshing some of the vague memories while reminiscing, Shamroc gets out of bed and walks to his closet. He opens up the door and takes a quick glance, looking for something in particular. He reaches on the top shelf and feels around for his diary. As soon as he finds it, he slides it over closer to get a better grip of the book to bring it down but it slips past and crashes to the ground. The binding breaks and pages fly everywhere. Frustrated, Shamroc turns on the bedroom lights and leans forward to pick up the sheets that are now no longer organized by date. After they are all collected, he takes them over and sets them on his desk. He then pours himself some scotch in an iced glass and takes a seat, putting on his glasses and beginning to look over the first entry on top of the pile of papers. It reads...

 

Dear Shamroc,

I fear this message didn't reach you in time. I thought of you last night. I looked up the ghosts of my past, admiring with such an innocence back then. You were right next to me this whole time. Should I have sent my letter instead of go to sleep? I mean what are the odds that I read about you last night, then you're dead the next day? I can't believe it. We are veterans with two different fates. Yes, it's been twelve years. Time is going by slowly. 

Petra