Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMC988514NE39N0HJ0ZP7R

The Raven’s Nest smelled of old wood and the faintest trace of whiskey, the kind that clung to the air like a memory. Aurora Carter—Rory, to those who knew her—stood at the bar, her fingers brushing the cool glass of a gin and tonic before she took a sip. The neon sign above the door flickered, casting a greenish glow over the room, the same hue that had once been her favorite color. She hadn’t been here in years. Not since the day she’d left London, not since the man who’d called himself Evan had left her with a bruise on her ribs and a promise she’d never make again. Silas Blackwood, Si to his friends, was leaning against the counter, his silver signet ring catching the light as he tapped it against the edge of a whiskey glass. His auburn hair was streaked with gray now, his beard neatly trimmed but with the faintest hint of stubble along his jawline. He looked up as she approached, his hazel eyes sharp with something like recognition before he forced a smile. “Rory,” he said, his voice low. “You look… different.” She didn’t answer right away. The change in him wasn’t just the gray in his hair—it was the way his shoulders were broader, the way his posture carried an unspoken weight. He’d always been tall, but now there was something in his stance, like he was carrying the world on his shoulders. The bar was crowded, the usual hum of conversation thick in the air, but neither of them seemed to notice. “You look the same,” she said, finally. “Same old Si.” Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so tight. “You’re still the same Rory.” She took another sip of her drink, the ice cold against her tongue. “I’m not sure I am.” A waiter in a crisp black shirt passed by, his eyes lingering on Rory before moving on. Silas watched him, his gaze sharp. “You’re working here?” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m delivering for Yu-Fei Cheung’s.” Silas’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers tightened around his glass. “You’re not in pre-law anymore?” She didn’t answer that either. Instead, she leaned against the bar, the scar on her left wrist—small as it was—pulsing faintly with the memory of the accident that had left her with it. “I left Cardiff. Fled London.” Silas’s jaw tightened. “Evan.” She didn’t look away from him. “Evan.” The silence between them was thick, the kind that settled in your bones. The bar’s dim light cast long shadows across the walls, where old maps and black-and-white photographs hung in a haze of dust. Rory knew what he was going to say before he said it. “You should have told me.” She turned to him, her blue eyes bright with something she tried to hide. “I didn’t want to.” Silas’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You should have.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want to talk about it.” “You should have.” The waiter returned with their drinks, but Rory didn’t reach for hers. Instead, she watched Silas as he sipped his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. “I’m not the same person I was,” she said softly. “You’re not either.” Silas looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she’d known—the one who’d been her friend, her confidant, the one who’d helped her through the worst of it. But there was something else now, something heavier, something that made his eyes darken. “You’re a lawyer now,” he said. She didn’t deny it. “I’m not.” “You’re working for Yu-Fei Cheung’s.” “No, I’m not.” Silas’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then back to her face. “You’re not the same person who left me.” She wanted to argue, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she took a breath, her fingers tightening around the glass. “I’m not.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached out and tapped the signet ring on his finger against the edge of the bar. “I’m not either.” The bar was quiet again, the hum of conversation fading into the background. Rory looked around, her eyes taking in the familiar details—the way the maps hung crooked on the wall, the way the photographs seemed to watch her like old friends. She thought of the life she’d left behind, the life she’d tried to escape. “You know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I used to think I was running from something. But I think I was running *toward* it.” Silas didn’t answer right away. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, his gaze intense. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist. “You’re still running,” he said. She looked down at their hands, the weight of his touch heavy in her palm. “I don’t know anymore.” Silas’s thumb brushed against the scar, his voice soft. “You should know.” She looked back up at him, her eyes filled with something she tried to hide. “I don’t want to.” Silas released her hand, his fingers lingering for a moment before he stepped back. The bar’s dim light flickered, casting long shadows across the walls, the same shadows that had once been her refuge. Rory took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “You’re not the same person I knew,” she said. Silas nodded, his expression heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” The waiter returned with their drinks, but Rory didn’t reach for hers. Instead, she watched Silas as he sipped his whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light. She thought of the life she’d left behind, the life she’d tried to escape. “You know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I used to think I was running from something. But I think I was running *toward* it.” Silas didn’t answer right away. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, his gaze intense. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist. “You’re still running,” he said. She looked down at their hands, the weight of his touch heavy in her palm. “I don’t know anymore.” Silas’s thumb brushed against the scar, his voice soft. “You should know.” She looked back up at him, her eyes filled with something she tried to hide. “I don’t want to.” The bar was quiet again, the hum of conversation fading into the background. The neon sign above the door flickered, casting a greenish glow over the room, the same glow that had once been her favorite color. Rory took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Silas released her hand, his fingers lingering for a moment before he stepped back. The weight of their conversation settled between them, heavy and unspoken. Rory looked around, her eyes taking in the familiar details—the way the maps hung crooked on the wall, the way the photographs seemed to watch her like old friends. “You’re not the same person I knew,” she said. Silas nodded, his expression heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” She exhaled, the breath escaping her in a slow, shaky release. The bar’s dim light flickered, and for a moment, she was back in Cardiff, standing in the hallway after a long night of drinking, Evan’s voice ringing in her ears. She was back in London, standing in the flat above Silas’s bar, the weight of her past pressing down on her like a physical force. “You’re not the same person I knew,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. Silas’s gaze was steady, his expression unyielding. “No,” he said again, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m not.” She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she’d known—the one who’d been her friend, her confidant. But there was something else now, something heavier, something that made his eyes darken with something she couldn’t quite name. “You know,” she said, her voice soft, “I used to think I was running from something. But I think I was running *toward* it.” Silas didn’t answer right away. He was watching her, his expression heavy with something she couldn’t quite read. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist. “You’re still running,” he said. She looked down at their hands, the weight of his touch heavy in her palm. “I don’t know anymore.” Silas’s thumb brushed against the scar, his voice gentle. “You should know.” She looked back up at him, her eyes filled with something she tried to hide. “I don’t want to.” The bar’s dim light flickered, casting long shadows across the walls, the same shadows that had once been her refuge. Rory took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. Silas released her hand, his fingers lingering for a moment before he stepped back. The silence between them was heavy, the kind that settled in your bones. Rory looked around, her eyes taking in the familiar details—the way the maps hung crooked on the wall, the way the photographs seemed to watch her like old friends. “You’re not the same person I knew,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Silas nodded, his expression heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” She exhaled, the breath escaping her in a slow, shaky release. The neon sign flickered once more, and for a moment, she was back in the past, standing in the same bar, the same room, the same weight of unspoken words pressing down on her. “You know,” she said, her voice soft, “I used to think I was running from something. But I think I was running *toward* it.” Silas didn’t answer right away. He was watching her, his gaze intense, his expression unyielding. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist. “You’re still running,” he said. She looked down at their hands, the weight of his touch heavy in her palm. “I don’t know anymore.” Silas’s thumb brushed against the scar, his voice gentle. “You should know.” She looked back up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of regret and something else, something she couldn’t quite define. The bar’s dim light flickered, the neon sign casting a greenish glow over the room, the same glow that had once been her comfort. “You’re not the same person I knew,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Silas nodded, his expression heavy with something she couldn’t quite read. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” The silence stretched between them, the weight of their conversation pressing down on them like a physical force. Rory took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “You know what?” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I think I’m done running.” Silas looked at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re sure?” She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “I am.” Silas studied her for a moment, his gaze intense. Then, slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, his fingers brushing against the scar on her wrist once more. “Good,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with something she couldn’t quite understand. “Good.” The bar’s dim light flickered once more, casting long shadows across the walls. Rory looked around, her eyes taking in the familiar details—the way the maps hung crooked on the wall, the way the photographs seemed to watch her like old friends. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “I’m not the same person I was,” she said. Silas nodded, his expression heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. “No,” he said. “I’m not.” And in that moment, between the flickering neon sign and the weight of their unspoken words, Rory knew she was finally home.