Claire Keegan

Small Things Like These is set in a small Irish town during the weeks leading up to Christmas, 1985. Bill Furlong, a coal merchant and father of five daughters, is just doing his rounds—delivering coal, juggling family life, trying to keep the wolf from the door. He’s the sort who keeps his head down, works hard, doesn’t stir the pot. But one frosty morning, while dropping off a load at the local convent, he stumbles onto something he can’t ignore: a traumatized girl, locked in a shed, cold and frightened. Turns out, the convent’s not just a religious sanctuary—it’s hiding some pretty grim secrets, and Bill’s the unlucky guy who’s seen behind the curtain. The town, of course, is tight-lipped. Everyone knows something’s off, but nobody wants to poke the bear. There’s a real sense of suffocating silence, like everyone’s in on this terrible secret but too afraid or worn down to do anything about it. Bill’s got choices: turn a blind eye, or stick his neck out and maybe risk everything—his job, his family’s safety, his place in this community that’s all he’s ever known. That gnawing sense of right and wrong? It’s banging on the door of his conscience, and it’s not going away. The story digs deep into what it means to do the right thing when it’s the hardest thing, and how even the smallest acts of kindness can echo in the darkest places. It’s a quiet, tense, and painfully honest look at courage, complicity, and the cost of staying silent.