The air was thick with bittersweet emotion as my parents reluctantly handed over their three-month-old grandson, Arin, to my sister.

We arrived at Ayr, a small, quiet station. As we stepped outside, I found myself recounting my ordeal to two elderly men nearby — explaining how I had to catch the Stena ferry by 3 PM.

An announcement echoed softly through the ferry’s corridors: we were entering Belfast harbour and a subtle shift rippled through the air. Around us, people in the restaurant area began gathering their belongings, their movements purposeful yet tinged with anticipation.