Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQSWWFKPGWWQH0RKGRPDK4

The Raven’s Nest pulled at darkness like a loyal old coat, the kind that fit too snug in the shoulders but you kept reaching for anyway. Bright motes of green neon buzzed at the windows, washing the rain-streaked glass in a sickly light, but inside, the only glow came from shaded lamps and half-spent candles perched among ancient whiskey bottles behind the bar. Maps curling at their edges plastered the walls—a war room for those with tired souls—and scuffed black-and-white photographs stared out at the dusk trade with glassy-eyed patience. Aurora Carter stepped in, her stride sure, straight black hair tucked behind one ear, rainwater beading on her parka’s shoulders. The easy chatter of the Saturday crowd dipped for a heartbeat, then rolled back, people dismissing her as just another guest ducking in from Soho drizzle. She scanned the room, finding her place—just as she’d found it every evening since moving upstairs a year ago. The scar on her left wrist itched with memory, though she'd learned to keep her hands steady when nerves threatened. She moved, light on her feet, to the rickety end of the bar. Behind it, Silas Blackwood presided like the last captain of a doomed ship—pausing to measure a shot of cheap bourbon for a regular, then sliding the glass with idle grace. He slouched, but with a hint of ceremony, beneath the maps and shadows. A trick knee kept his gait short, which didn't much matter here, where everything important traveled by voice. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted as he wiped a glass, watching the door. Always watching. “Evening, Carter.” His voice, low and velvet-edged, cut through the hum. She gave him a quick smile. “Evening, Silas. Busy for a Wednesday.” “It’s Saturday, actually.” He smirked, but his eyes sharpened, gauging her. That’s why you were supposed to sleep last night. “Long week at Yu-Fei’s.” She meant to ask for her usual—a half pint with the cheap cheese straws he brought out for staff—but a strange current slid in behind her. Something nervous rose in her chest, whispering of years-long absences and things left unfinished. She turned, meaning only to find a quieter corner. That’s when she saw him. At first, the man at the corner table looked like one of the regular lone drinkers—coat collar up, hunched over a whisky glass, a neat beard trimmed close. His silhouette was broader than memory, posture more armored, but the eyes—when they flicked up and found hers—were unmistakable. It was Thomas O’Malley, looking thirteen years older and as wary as a stray dog in a thunderstorm. She froze. Thomas, who had once belonged to summer bonfires on the beach outside Cardiff, whose jokes had carried her through university exam hell, whose letters she’d tucked away when London made her too lonely to sleep. Lean Thomas, who used to laugh so hard at his own puns he’d snort water up his nose; Thomas, who had not written—not once—in almost a decade. His face, once boyish, now wore the habits of caution. His hair had receded at the corners. He gestured with the whisky, uncertain, an invitation or a warning. She crossed the floor because curiosity was always stronger than self-preservation. “Tom,” she said, just above the level of the music. He blinked once, twice, before speaking. “Rory.” The smallest hitch. “Well. I’ll be damned.” “I’ll sit, if it’s not—?” Her hand hovered. He nodded, eyes following the streak of her hair. Only when she’d slid onto the opposite bench did he let his shoulders drop, just a fraction. Her own heart had settled into a slow, careful rhythm. She was in no hurry; she wanted every detail. “You found the Nest,” she said, too lightly. “Odd place for an O’Malley, isn’t it?” He glanced around the dim bar as if seeing it for the first time. “Business trip,” he lied, or she assumed he lied. “Some offshore outfit wanted my numbers. Met the client near Oxford Circus, and—” His hand twitched. “—this caught my eye. Never thought I’d walk into a place from your letters.” The bar's ice machine rattled and someone cackled at the darts board. Out of the edge of her eye, Aurora saw Silas slip through the staff door, the limp more pronounced when he thought no one watched. “You look well,” Thomas offered, but there was an effort in it. She studied him. He’d filled out, but not in the way of people who learned to cook for themselves; more like someone who spent too many hours at a desk, measured out in account ledgers and cold takeaways. The skin around his eyes held the pallor of late nights. The right sleeve was pushed up, showing a faded tattoo she didn’t remember getting a letter about. “You too,” she lied back, softer. A wave of silence pushed between them, surfacing all the years lost. She could almost count them by the calendar on the wall—May 2014, January 2016, never June, because no one called in June. Thomas shifted. “Never figured you for London,” he said, rolling the lip of his glass. “You hated big cities. Remember that flat you swore was haunted at uni?” His smile flickered, not quite reaching his eyes. She traced a droplet of condensation along her glass. “Plenty of things to hate everywhere. Got tired of running from shadows that weren’t really ghosts.” She blinked. “Eva helped me out. Found a job, a place.” He nodded, but too fast—so he’d heard, secondhand perhaps, or surmised. “Eva always had the answers.” He sipped, hesitating. “Is she…?” “Married. Leamington Spa. Three kids, if you can believe it.” She let herself enjoy the shock cross his face. “No,” he said, softly awed. “Hard to picture.” “She sent a Christmas card,” Aurora said. “With glitter. Should’ve known motherhood would be contagious.” He laughed, the old way, voice catching. But the silence behind it quickly fell back in again, and she wondered if he wanted to bridge that, or simply mend fences long enough to walk away clean. She watched him carefully. “How’ve you really been, Tom?” He set the glass down, turning it so the logo—some Irish distillery—faced away. “I manage risk for money now,” he said, voice low. “Risk and return, all numbers. Two years ago, I bought a house in Newport. Big brick thing. I rattle around in it like a pebble in a shoe.” His fingers absently rubbed at the base of his ring finger, unadorned. “Got a promotion last autumn. Went home to celebrate. Dad couldn’t drink—doctors say the stent won’t hold.” His gaze drifted to the pressed tin ceiling. “Time goes fast, then too slow.” She nodded, letting the words rest in the silt of regret. “I work deliveries for Yu-Fei. Above this bar. Not glamorous, but honest. Keeps me fed.” “I’d have thought, you know—law.” He hesitated. “You were always the clever one, Rory. I still get cross when anyone says you weren’t.” She studied his face. He hadn’t shaved this morning; he’d left a shadow there, and the way he folded his hands said he still bit his nails under the desk. “It stopped fitting. Law was Dad’s life, not mine.” His gaze softened, a memory passing between them: her at sixteen, reciting arguments in the park, him flinging pebbles at the ducks. “You still let nothing slip past,” he murmured. “That hasn’t changed.” But she had changed, hadn’t she? Cardiff Rory had trusted easily, worn her heart inside out. London Aurora watched the exits. She filled silences now instead of chasing them away. She caught herself wanting to apologize for it—for the silence, the different cities, the years neither had filled with letters. Instead, she watched the condensation bead into a small puddle at the bottom of her glass. “I missed you,” Thomas said, abrupt, voice ragged as a torn envelope. “I’m not saying it right. Things got—messy. You know how it goes.” She remembered, vividly, Evan’s ringed hand around her wrist, the sharp hurt as glass shattered, the suffocating smallness of her own breath. She remembered Eva’s offer: London. A fresh start. She’d run without looking back—hadn’t even texted Thomas. “I know,” she said. A long exhale. “I’m sorry too. For leaving the way I did.” His mouth pulled into a wry curve. “We all were running from something, weren’t we?” Someone at the far table started up a raucous football chant. Inside the brittle break in the noise, they held eye contact, unsteady but honest. She finally breathed out, the tension settling in her shoulders. “You could write, you know. Now, I mean.” His brow creased, as though he’d forgotten how. “Would you answer?” A small smile, this one real. “Ask me in June.” He looked down, then up, and for a moment, the weight of years melted away—two old friends, both changed in ways the other could never quite name, but still caught in the gravity of shared memory. Whatever would be said tomorrow, this had been enough: acknowledgment, and the possibility—fragile, luminous—of a letter yet to come.