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They grew up in their grandmother's kitchen in County Clare, then left for Dublin at nineteen to work nights at a warehouse rave collective. Still gardens — tomatoes, nettles, wild garlic — but now it's rebellion against concrete, a private thing. The freckles haven't faded.
The way they absently rub their thumb across their knuckles while listening, a gardener's habit that reads as barely contained kinetic energy, like they're always two seconds from moving.
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