Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMFVACP3SH5CXAY6FKCT5C

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the gloom of the London night. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust, leather, the faint metallic tang of a hundred unwashed glasses. The bar itself was a relic of another era, its walls lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs of men and women who had long since faded into history. The patrons were a mix of the usual—traders in pinstripe suits, artists with ink-stained fingers, a few weary-looking men who might have been soldiers or spies or both. Aurora Carter—Rory to her friends, though she hadn’t had many of those lately—leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of something amber and bitter. She hadn’t been back to London in years, not since the night she’d walked away from everything. The city had changed. The streets were wider now, the buildings taller, the air thicker with the hum of a thousand unseen lives. She’d thought she’d left it all behind. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood sat in his usual corner booth, his grey-streaked auburn hair slightly disheveled as it always was, his limp just noticeable enough to make her wince. He was older, of course—time had etched lines around his eyes, deepened the faint scar on his jaw she’d never noticed before. But it was the way he held himself that stopped her. Quiet. Unshaken. Like he’d been waiting for her. She should have walked away. She *had* walked away. But her boots didn’t move. Instead, she slid onto the stool beside him, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—something woody, something old. “Took you long enough,” he said, his voice rougher than she remembered. She ignored the comment. “You still own this place?” “Still own it.” He took a slow sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. “Heard you’d left the country.” “Heard wrong.” She swirled the whiskey in her glass, the ice clinking against the sides. “I just… wasn’t here.” “No.” He set the glass down. “You were here. Just not *here*.” The unspoken words hung between them. *Not in London. Not in the life you knew.* She exhaled through her nose, rubbing her thumb over the scar on her wrist—the one that had always been a reminder of the girl she’d been before she learned to run. “You look different,” she said, because it was easier than admitting she’d missed him. “So do you.” He studied her for a long moment, then nodded toward the scar. “Still got the mark.” “Still got the scars.” She lifted her wrist, turning it so the light caught the pale crescent. “Thought you’d forgotten.” “Never forget.” His gaze flicked to something behind her—an old habit, she realized. Then he turned back, his expression unreadable. “You ever think about why you left?” The question was a blade between her ribs. She tightened her grip on the glass. “Why do you care?” “Because I know you.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “And I know you don’t run from things unless they’re eating you alive.” She laughed, sharp and humorless. “That’s not why.” “No?” He tilted his head. “Then why?” She should have lied. She should have said *I just needed space* or *I couldn’t handle it anymore*. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “Because I was afraid.” Silas didn’t flinch. “Of what?” “Of being the same person.” She swallowed. “Of being the girl who stayed.” He went still. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table toward her. “I kept this.” She unfolded it carefully. It was a photograph—yellowed at the edges, the kind that had been taken in a darkroom. In it, she was younger, her hair longer, her smile brighter. She was standing in front of a building she didn’t recognize, her arm around a man who looked like Silas. Behind them, a crowd of people, some waving, some laughing. The date was scrawled in ink at the bottom: *June 12, 2008. Your graduation.* “You were supposed to be here,” he said quietly. She looked up at him. “I was.” “No.” He shook his head. “You were supposed to *stay*.” The words hit her like a punch. She clenched her fists. “I didn’t know what I was getting into.” “You always did.” His voice was gentle, but there was steel beneath it. “You were never one to back down from a fight.” She remembered that girl—the one who had argued with professors, who had stayed up all night researching cases, who had believed in justice with a fierce, reckless optimism. She remembered the night she’d walked away from Evan, the way her father had looked at her like she’d betrayed something. She remembered the way she’d *felt*—like she was drowning, and the only way out was to swim for the surface, no matter how dark the water. She’d been wrong. “You think I don’t know that?” she said, her voice raw. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was saving myself.” “And you were.” Silas’s gaze was steady. “But you didn’t save anyone else.” The words cut deeper than she expected. She looked down at the photograph again, at the girl in it—so sure, so *alive*. “I didn’t know how.” “You didn’t *want* to know.” He reached out, brushing his fingers against hers. “That’s the difference between running and fleeing, Rory. You ran. You fled.” She pulled her hand away. “What does it matter now?” “Because you’re back.” He leaned back in the booth, his expression softening. “And you’re not the same girl.” She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she was still the same—still afraid, still broken. But the truth was, she wasn’t. She was harder. Sharper. She had learned to carry things inside her, to let them weigh her down without breaking. She looked around the bar—the same old maps, the same worn leather booths, the same quiet dignity in Silas’s presence. She thought about the life she’d built in London, the way she moved through the world now, unseen, unnoticed. She thought about the girl in the photograph and wondered if she’d ever been brave enough to be that person again. “What now?” she asked. Silas studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Now,” he said, “we drink and we talk. And then, if you’re still here in the morning, we figure out what comes next.” She should have walked away then. She should have told him she had a delivery to make, that she had a life to get back to. But the truth was, she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. She picked up her glass and took a slow sip, letting the whiskey burn its way down her throat. Outside, the rain fell harder, turning the streets into a mirror of the neon sign above them. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, and for a moment, the world felt like it was holding its breath. Silas raised his glass. “To second chances.” She clinked hers against his. “To second chances.” And for the first time in years, she let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t running anymore.