AI The neon green sign of The Raven’s Nest buzzed with a low, electric hum that seemed to vibrate against the rain-slicked pavement of Soho. Aurora Carter pushed through the heavy oak door, the damp chill of the London streets clinging to her nylon jacket. She shook her head, sending droplets of water flying from her shoulder-length black hair, and exhaled a long breath that tasted of petrol and fatigue.
Inside, the world was amber and dust. The bar smelled of gin, old paper, and the peculiar, comforting mustiness of a library that served alcohol. The walls were plastered with yellowing maps and black-and-white photographs—captured moments of landscapes that no longer existed and people who had long since stopped waiting for anything.
Silas Blackwood stood behind the mahogany counter, his movements economical and precise. He was polishing a tumbler with a rag that had seen better decades. As Rory approached, he looked up, his hazel eyes catching the dim light.
"You look like a drowned rat, Rory," Silas said, his voice a gravelly baritone. He set the glass down. The silver signet ring on his right hand clicked against the wood.
"Charming as ever, Silas," she replied, unzipping her jacket. She could still smell the faint aroma of five-spice and roasted duck on her clothes—a souvenir from her shift at the Golden Empress. "It’s coming down in sheets out there. I think the gutters are finally surrendering."
"Gin?"
"Tea. Please."
Silas didn't smile, but the crinkles around his eyes deepened. He turned to the kettle, his left leg dragging slightly —a rhythmic hitch, the legacy of a Prague winter and a botched extraction he never spoke about. Rory watch ed him, grateful for his quiet solidity.
She turned to scan the room, a habit she had picked up from living above a bar frequented by people who preferred shadows. The Nest was mostly empty on a Tuesday. A couple whispered in a booth near the hidden bookshelf entrance. An old man nursed a stout near the radiator.
And then there was the woman at the corner table.
She was staring at Rory.
Rory froze, her hand halfway to her hair. The woman wore a camel-hair coat that probably cost more than Rory’s entire year of rent. Her hair was a blonde bob, sharp enough to cut glass, and her posture was rigid, terrified, and painfully familiar.
"Laila?" the woman whispered.
The name hit Rory like a physical blow. It was a dead name, a ghost from Cardiff, a sound that belonged to lecture halls and Sunday roasts and the heavy expectations of Brendan Carter.
"It’s Aurora now," she said, her voice dropping an octave, stripping away the Welsh lilt she had worked so hard to bury under London concrete.
The woman stood up. It was Sarah . Sarah Jenkins. Top of the class in Contract Law, daughter of a judge, and the person Rory had been intended to become.
"My God," Sarah said, stepping forward but stopping short of a hug. She looked at Rory’s wet jacket, the worn denim, the scuffed boots. Her eyes cataloged the details with the ruthlessness of a surveyor assessing a condemned building. "We thought... honestly, Laila, we didn't know if you were alive. Your father said—"
"I imagine he said a lot of things." Rory walked over to the table, moving with a weary grace. She didn't invite Sarah to sit, but she sat down herself, needing the support. "What are you doing here, Sarah ?"
"Review conference. Commercial litigation." Sarah sank back into her chair, looking around the bar with thinly veiled distaste. "I saw the green sign. I just needed a drink. I had no idea you... frequented places like this."
"I live here," Rory said. "Upstairs."
Sarah ’s eyes widened . "In Soho? Above a pub?"
"It’s a bar," Rory corrected. She placed her hands on the table. The small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a souvenir from a childhood fall off a garden wall—caught the light. Sarah ’s gaze locked onto it. It was the only punctuation mark in their history that remained unchanged.
"You look different," Sarah said softly . "Harder."
"I’m twenty-five, Sarah . Not eighteen."
"It’s been three years since you left. Just vanished." Sarah leaned in, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Evan was a wreck, you know. He played the grieving saint for months."
Rory felt a cold spike of adrenaline in her gut, sharp and familiar. "I’m sure he did."
"He told everyone you had a breakdown. That the pressure of the Pre-Law program was too much for you." Sarah reached out, her manicured fingers hovering over Rory’s rugged hand but not touching it. "But looking at you... you don't look broken. You look like you're ready to hit someone."
"I make deliveries," Rory said flatly. "I negotiate traffic. I deal with people who think they own the pavement. It requires a certain level of alertness."
Silas appeared at the table. He didn't ask; he simply placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Rory and a fresh glass of Pinot Noir in front of Sarah . He lingered for a fraction of a second, his auburn beard twitching as he assessed Sarah . He offered no greeting, just a silent, protective presence before limping back to his station.
"Who is that?" Sarah asked, watch ing him go.
"My landlord. My friend."
"He looks dangerous."
"Only if you cross him," Rory said, taking a sip of the tea. It was Earl Grey, strong and hot. "Why did you really stop, Sarah ? You don't drink Pinot Noir in dive bars alone."
Sarah swirled the wine, watch ing the red legs cling to the glass. "I hate it."
"The wine?"
" The firm. The hours. The way my father looks at me like I’m an investment portfolio that’s performing adequately." Sarah looked up, and for the first time, the polished veneer cracked. Her plenty-colored eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. "I saw you, Laila. I mean, Aurora. I saw you walk in. You looked wet and tired, but you walked in like you owned the place. Like you weren't afraid of what anyone thought of you."
Rory traced the rim of her mug. "I stopped caring about what people thought when I realized their opinions wouldn't pay my rent or keep me safe."
"Brendan misses you," Sarah lied. It was a clumsy lie, poorly constructed.
"Brendan misses the idea of me," Rory corrected gently . "He misses the daughter who was going to take over the practice. He doesn't miss the girl who packed a bag in the middle of the night because her boyfriend had a temper that he experimented with behind closed doors."
Sarah flinched. The confirmation of the rumor hung in the air between them, heavy as smoke. "We suspected. But nobody asked."
"No. Nobody asked."
Theme silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator behind the bar and the distant sirens on Shaftesbury Avenue. Rory looked at Sarah —really looked at her—and saw the cage she had escaped. It was a gilded cage, lined with silk and statute books, but it was a cage nonetheless. Sarah was still inside, rattling the bars with her expensive wine and her hollow career.
"I’m happy, Sarah ," Rory said. The truth of it surprised her. It wasn't a euphoric happiness; it was the quiet, sturdy satisfaction of survival. "I’m not rich. I’m not a barrister. But I sleep at night."
Sarah looked at Rory’s hands again. The fingernails were short, unpainted. There was a small burn mark on her thumb from a hot sauce container earlier that day.
"I envy you," Sarah whispered. The admission seemed to terrify her. "God, that sounds stupid. I make six figures. I have a flat in Kensington. But I look at you, and I feel... trapped."
Rory leaned back, the leather of the booth creaking. "Door's always open, Sarah . The way out isn't hidden. It’s just heavy."
Sarah finished her wine in one long gulp. She stood up, smoothing the front of her coat, reassembling the armor of the successful solicitor. The moment of vulnerability was closing, sealing up like a wound healing over too fast to be clean.
"If I see your father," Sarah said, her voice regaining its professional crispness, "what should I tell him?"
Rory looked at the crescent scar on her wrist. She remembered the day she got it, crying in the garden while her mother fussed and her father checked his watch , worried about being late for court.
"Tell him you didn't see me," Rory said. "Tell him Laila is gone."
Sarah nodded. A brief, sharp nod. She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more, perhaps an apology for the years of silence, or for the defense she never mounted on Rory's behalf. But the words died in her throat. She turned and walked toward the door, her heels clicking a rhythmic retreat on the wooden floorboards.
Rory watch ed her go. The heavy door swung shut, cutting off the view of the street.
Silas moved from behind the bar. He came around with the pot of tea and refilled her mug. He didn't ask who the woman was. He didn't need to. In his line of work, he knew what it looked like when the past came knocking.
"She forgot her umbrella," Silas noted, nodding toward the stand by the door.
"She won't come back for it," Rory said.
"No. I suppose not." Silas rested his hand on the back of the booth. "You alright, Rory?"
Rory looked up at him. His face was a map of its own, scarred and lined, grave and kind. She took a breath, inhaling the scent of the bar—her home.
"Yeah, Si," she said, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. "I'm just fine."
She took a sip of tea, the heat spreading through her chest, chasing away the damp chill of the rain and the colder chill of memory. Outside, the green neon sign buzzed on, a beacon for the lost and the found.