Under Construction

Liffey Loft smelled like wet plaster and lager, which Aidan decided was exactly what "authentic Dublin" should be. He rolled his suitcase over extension cords and apologized to a paint bucket as if it could hear him. The receptionist handed him a key and a waiver that said, in polite font, "Renovations underway. Enter at your own risk." He signed it with a grin and told himself the scariest thing he'd face in Dublin was a hangover.

The staircase was wrapped in plastic and dotted with tape that said "Caution" in six languages. Aidan climbed anyway, dodging a ladder and a stack of steel beams. Finlay, hunched over his laptop on a landing, waved without looking up. "They say they're fixing the third floor," he said. "They've been saying that for a week." Above them, a crew member hammered rhythmically, the sound syncing with the bass thump from the pub next door.

Aidan stopped at a scaffold where a scrap of cardboard dangled like a warning flag. Someone had drawn a crude scythe and scribbled, "@HostelReaper: Hard hats don't cover everything." He laughed, took a photo, and sent it to his brother with a caption: "Dublin is a vibe." He kept climbing.

Maeve, the manager, stood at the front desk with a clipboard full of deadlines. The renovation had to be finished before the summer rush, and every day the crew fell behind made the numbers tighter. She told herself that cordoning off the stairs would cost more in lost beds than it would save in safety. The city inspector wasn't due until Friday. It was only Tuesday.

The beam slipped at 6:22 p.m. A worker lifted one end, lost his grip, and shouted something into the noise of the pub. The warning never reached the stairwell. The steel fell through the open shaft, a clean, heavy drop that turned the air into a razor. Aidan was halfway up, his hand on the railing, when the beam hit. The impact was a dull, final thud that stopped the hammering above and the chatter below.

Finlay looked up in time to see a puff of dust drift down like snow. He froze, then ran. Maeve heard the thud and felt her stomach drop before she understood why. The hostel went silent for the first time all day, the pub's music suddenly feeling like a cruel joke.

An ambulance arrived, and tourists crowded the street, phones held high. The rumor spread by midnight: a guest killed in a Dublin hostel under renovation. Someone in a Budapest group chat replied with a photo of a snapped bunk. Someone in Bali posted a shaky pool video. The @HostelReaper account posted a new line: "Death #11. The scaffolding was temporary."

Maeve covered the stairwell with plywood the next morning and added more tape, more signs, more apologies. Aidan's bed was stripped, his sheet folded away as if it could erase what happened. The renovation continued. The hostel's new review page asked for "understanding during upgrades." The upgrades kept coming. The list did too.