Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGEKQG6MRZTKP95K8XJRP

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest buzzed faintly in the drizzle, casting a jade glow over the slick pavement outside. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, cigar smoke that lingered long after the last guest had stubbed theirs out, and the faint warmth of a log stove tucked in the corner. It was late—nearly eleven—and the usual Friday night hum had settled into a low, tired murmur. A jazz quartet played on the small stage behind the bar, a saxophonist winding blue notes into the dark like smoke from a forgotten dream. Aurora Carter sat on a stool tucked into a corner booth, her delivery bag slumped beside her like a tired companion. She'd just finished her shift with Yu-Fei’s, weaving across Soho on her electric bike through the downpour, the sleeves of her jacket soaked past the elbows. Her black hair dripped at the ends, brushing the collar of her coat. She stirred her whiskey—neat, no ice—with a finger, the glass barely touched. Her bright blue eyes watched the room not with longing, but with a kind of practiced stillness, the quiet vigilance of someone used to scanning exits and gauging threats. The crescent scar on her left wrist caught the lamplight when she lifted the drink to her lips. Then the door opened. A gust of wet London air rushed in, carrying with it a woman in a tailored trench coat, her auburn hair streaked silver at the temples, pinned loosely at the nape. She paused just inside, scanning the room the way one might survey a battlefield. Her gaze landed on Aurora. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then recognition—slow, seismic—rippled across the woman’s face. “Aurora?” The voice was lower than it had been, seasoned by time and cigarettes. “Bloody hell. It *is* you.” Aurora turned. Her glass stilled midway to her lips. The woman stood taller than she remembered. Sharper. The roundness of youth had been carved away by years that had left something harder in its place, like river stone smoothed by current but no longer soft. “Eva?” Aurora said, barely above a whisper. Eva moved forward, slipping off her coat and draping it over the back of the adjacent stool. Her eyes—still that piercing green—flickered over Aurora with an intensity that felt almost invasive. “Last I heard, you’d vanished. Changed your number. Left Cardiff without so much as a forwarding address.” Aurora set the glass down. “I did.” Eva sat, uninvited, sliding into the booth opposite. “And now you’re here. In this godforsaken crypt. Drinking alone.” “It’s not poison.” “Doesn’t need to be. Just looks like it’s doing the job.” A silence settled, thick and heavy. The saxophone exhaled a long, mournful note. Outside, a siren slid through the city like a blade through silk. Eva studied her. “You cut your hair.” Aurora touched it, a nervous habit she thought she’d broken. “Years ago.” “Used to go down your back. You swore you’d never cut it after your mum died.” “That was a long time ago,” Aurora said quietly. “So was she.” Eva flinched, just slightly. Apology and accusation tangled in her throat, neither winning. “I tried to find you, you know.” “You didn’t try hard enough.” “I sent letters. To your father.” “My father didn’t give them to me.” “He said you didn’t want to be found.” “And you believed him.” Eva leaned back, fingers drumming once on the table. “What was I supposed to do? Kick down his front door? You left. You *ran*. I thought you were safe. I thought that was the point.” “It was,” Aurora said. Her voice didn’t waver. “And then it wasn’t, for a while. Not until I got here.” “Here” meaning London. Meaning this bar. Meaning the quiet man behind the bar with the silver ring and the slight limp, who was now watching them with a stillness that said he knew when trouble arrived, even when it came in the form of a woman in a trench coat and a past full of unfinished sentences. Eva followed her gaze. “Him?” “Silas. Owns the place.” “And?” “And he lets me live upstairs. When I don’t feel like riding through another storm to a flat that doesn’t feel like home.” Eva’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He’s not just a bartender, is he?” Aurora smiled—thin, knowing. “And you’re not just an old friend, are you, Eva?” A pause. Then Eva exhaled, almost amused. “Still sharp, I see.” “Had to be.” “I’m with the Foreign Office now. Not the flashy part. The quiet offices. The ones that deal with people who disappear. And reappear.” “Like me.” “Like you. Like others.” Eva leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I thought you were dead, Rory. For two years, I thought you’d walked into the sea, or that *he*—” “Don’t say his name.” “—had finally made good on his threats.” Aurora looked down. Her fingers curled around the glass. “He almost did. Not because he was stronger. Because I believed him when he said no one would miss me. No one would care.” Eva’s breath caught. “I *would* have.” “You didn’t come.” “I didn’t know.” Another silence. This one heavier. Finally, Aurora lifted her eyes. “You changed,” she said. Eva touched her temple, brushing back a strand of silver-streaked hair. “So did you.” “No. Not like this. You’re not the girl who used to sneak me wine from her parents’ cellar. Who used to laugh so hard she’d fall off park benches. You’re… colder.” “And you’re not the girl who used to cry over dead birds in the garden,” Eva shot back, voice tight. “Life does that.” “To both of us.” They stared at each other—the ghosts of who they were hovering between them, whispering in the spaces where laughter used to live. A waiter passed, refilled Aurora’s glass without being asked. Eva waved off any offer. “You don’t drink anymore?” Aurora asked. “I do. Just not when I’m working.” “What, are you here to recruit me? Is that it?” “No,” Eva said. “I came to see if you were alive. And now I have. And you are. And… it’s complicated.” “It always was.” “I miss you,” Eva said suddenly, the words raw, slipping out like something she’d kept caged for years. “I miss who we were. Before everything went wrong.” Aurora’s throat tightened. She looked away, toward the bar. Silas met her gaze, gave the smallest nod—the kind that said *I’m here*, without saying it at all. “We can’t go back,” she said. “I know.” “And I’m not the same.” “Neither am I.” Aurora turned back to her. “Then what are we doing?” Eva smiled, sad and crooked. “Remember that summer we stole your dad’s fishing boat and got stranded on the sandbar?” Aurora blinked. “How could I forget? We had to swim back in the dark.” “And we laughed the whole way.” “We were terrified.” “But we laughed.” Aurora exhaled, a slow release. “We did.” Outside, the rain had lessened. The neon sign flickered once, then steadied. Eva reached across the table, hesitated, then covered Aurora’s hand with her own. The scar on Aurora’s wrist lay exposed between them. “I’m sorry I didn’t come,” Eva whispered. Aurora didn’t pull away. She closed her fingers around Eva’s, just for a moment. “And I’m sorry I didn’t let you.”