Thuas ar imeall an domhain, áit a raibh na haillte sroichte ag an bhfairge, sheas Cian.

Up on the edge of the world, where the cliffs were reached by the sea, Cian stood.

Bhí an ghaoth ag séideadh go láidir agus d'fhéach na tonnta mar bheadh slua fíor.

The wind was blowing strongly and the waves looked like a fierce crowd.

Bhí an ghrian ag dul faoi, ag péinteáil an spéir le dathanna oráiste is corcra.

The sun was setting, painting the sky with shades of orange and purple.

Bhí sé lá deasach Déireach Fómhair, Lá Cuimhneacháin.

It was a fine late October day, a Memorial Day.

Bhí Aoife, Declan agus Cian tagtha le chéile ar Aillte an Mhothair chun onóir a thabhairt dá n-athair, fear uasal a bhí ar shlí na fírinne.

Aoife, Declan, and Cian had come together at the Cliffs of Moher to honor their father, a noble man who had passed away.

Bhí cuma misniúil ar Aoife agus Declan, ag cloí le traidisiún teaghlaigh.

Aoife and Declan appeared brave, adhering to family tradition.

Bhí áthas ar Chian a bheith lena mhuintir ach bhraith sé beagán easpa nasc.

Cian was happy to be with his family, but he felt a slight disconnect.

Chuala sé an dochar i gcroí an chuimhneacháin mar bhí rud éigin ann nach raibh oiriúnach dó.

He sensed a discomfort in the midst of the commemoration because something didn’t feel quite right to him.

Chuir an bhfeidhm traidisiúnach brú air, agus bhí Cian ag iarraidh bealach eile a aimsiú.

The traditional function weighed on him, and Cian was searching for another way.

Tar éis dó bheith páirteach sa tseirbhís le chéile, bheartaigh sé imeacht orthu go ciúin.

After joining in the service together, he decided to quietly leave them.

Shiúil sé go cúinne ciúin ar imeall na n-aillte.

He walked to a quiet corner on the edge of the cliffs.

Anseo, bhí an fharraige fós mar a bhí ann roimhe sin, lán de shaothar agus scéalta.

Here, the sea was still as it had been before, full of labor and stories.

Chas sé amach litir shimplí a bhí scríofa aige dá athair.

He turned out a simple letter he had written to his father.

Agus é ansin, ghlan sé a scornach agus labhair sé os ard.

And there, he cleared his throat and spoke aloud.

Labhair sé leis an ngaoth agus leis na tonnta, na focail á scaoileadh saor ón gcroí.

He spoke to the wind and the waves, releasing the words from his heart.

Bhí sé ag moladh a athair, ag meabhrú chuimhneacháin áille agus ag sileadh deoranna nach dtuigfeadh aon duine eile.

He praised his father, recalling beautiful memories, and shedding tears that no one else would understand.

Nuair a bhí a lámh folamh agus a chroí níos éadroime, bhí a fhios aige go raibh sé réidh chun filleadh.

When his hand was empty and his heart lighter, he knew he was ready to return.

D’fhill sé ar a theaghlach, ag mothú athraithe.

He rejoined his family, feeling transformed.

Ba mhó an suaimhneas a chuir sé faighte ina chroí.

The peace he had found in his heart was greater.

Cé go raibh an t-ionad bainte amach aige ar nós nua, bhí sé fós ceangailte lena theaghlach.

Even though he had reached this place in a new way, he was still connected to his family.

Go tobann, thuig sé gur féidir na traidisiúin a leanúint agus fós do bhealach féin a aimsiú.

Suddenly, he realized that traditions can be followed while still finding your own path.

D'fhan Cian taobh le Aoife agus Declan, idir lámh acu, le háthas go raibh sé tar éis a chonair féin a aimsiú chun brón a phróiseáil agus a mheas.

Cian stayed beside Aoife and Declan, holding their hands, happy that he had found his own way to process and reflect on grief.

Bhí a shíocháin aimsithe aige, faoin ngrian ag tumadh go mall san oíche.

He had found his peace, under the sun setting slowly in the night.