Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQTYGZG70BJ7SBARWJ6NX0

Aurora Carter didn’t see Eva at first. The Raven’s Nest swelled with its Thursday night hush—the sort of quiet that’s not really quiet, but thick with the soft scrape of pint glasses, murmured, private laughter echoing beneath an endless patina of night. Aurora kept close to the bar, her jacket draped folded over one arm, and let her eyes drift over the maps on the wall—Prague, Moscow, old London overlays—and the black-and-white photographs she’d long stopped trying to decipher. Silas moved expertly behind the bar, rolling his good leg carefully, one hand always poised above the stemware. His hazel gaze flicked over her as she sipped her Guinness. Outside, the green neon sign burned against the condensation-streaked windows, a promise or a warning, depending who you asked. The bell above the door rattled. Aurora didn’t bother looking; customers came and went. She leaned against the sticky oak counter and tried not to think about tomorrow’s morning shift, or Evan’s last text. Unremarkable evening. She felt anonymous in the worn hoodie, hair falling loose against her cheek, and enjoyed the feeling. Then—quiet at first—her name, old as stone. “Rory?” She flinched, nearly set her glass down too hard. The voice stitched her back years, to Cardiff and midnight train stations, not London’s careful city dusk. Rory. Not Aurora. Only Eva ever called her that, not since— She looked up. Eva stood in the entry, half-caught in the green neon’s glow, coat clutched close, rain in her hair. She was broader now—her pale face more angular, blonde curls cropped close to her head, makeup purposeful, black boots heavy and scuffed. Her posture was tense, wary, like someone bracing for news. Years and distances settled between them in the heartbeat before Eva’s mouth twitched into a shy, uncertain smile. “It’s you,” Eva said. “Bloody hell. After all this time.” Aurora ran her thumb unconsciously over the crescent scar on her wrist. “Eva. Christ.” It came out more breath than greeting. They stared, uneasy roots tangling beneath their feet. Aurora gestured to the seat beside her—a low barstool, one leg shorter than the other so it always rocked—and Eva perched, dropping her bag with a thud. “You look different,” Eva said softly. Her accent was sharp, London now, the trace of the Valleys nearly gone. “So do you.” Aurora found herself searching for the nervous girl who’d dragged her out of her father’s study window on summer nights. The girl who’d left a stack of notes under her pillow before she disappeared to Bristol. The girl who’d— “I barely recognized you.” Eva blinked, her lashes beaded with rain. “You work here?” She flicked her gaze around, taking in the maps, the faded velvet cushions, Silas eyeing them as if he could scent the strangeness. Aurora shook her head, a small smile cracking her fatigue. “No. I just—live upstairs, actually. Deliveries for the Golden Empress. Sometimes Silas lets me clean the glassware in exchange for whisky.” Eva’s laugh was low and surprised. “You always hated bars.” “So did you.” They both went quiet, the memory sharp: Eva, pale and trembling, holding her new vodka tonic in a Cardiff dive, narrating every sip because she didn’t trust herself not to choke. Aurora, back then, was brash, loud, certain. She remembered the feel of Eva’s hand at her elbow, grounding her. Eva took a slow breath. “Can I—buy you a drink? Or does that break the house rules?” Aurora waved to Silas, who nodded once, then poured two shots of whisky—Jameson, Aurora’s old vice. He lingered a little, but at Eva’s careful glower melted away into the bar’s soft swirl. They raised their glasses, uncertain. “To—” Eva hesitated. “To old friends,” Aurora said, voice gentler than she intended. Their glasses clinked, an awkward chime. The whisky burned Aurora’s throat, sweet-smoke and nostalgia. Eva set her glass down so quietly it didn’t even thud. Her fingers were restless now, twining the chain around her neck. Her nails painted a chipped navy, cut short. “God, Rory,” she said, staring at her hands. “I’ve rehearsed this. What I’d say, if I saw you again. Never got the lines right.” Aurora shrugged, but something in her chest squeezed. “I doubt I’d recognize them. I’m not exactly who I was, either.” They laughed, brittle. Silence crowded them. In the golden haze of the bar, Aurora tried to place Eva’s changes—her neat, almost clinical precision, the hush between words. Not the wild Eva of the summers, the girl who ran barefoot in Cardiff’s parks. “You look—good,” Eva said. Aurora glanced at her reflection in the mirror behind the whiskey, caught the faint shadow under her eyes, the wrinkled hoodie. “You don’t have to lie.” “I’m not.” Eva dipped her head. “You always kept it together, even when you didn’t. I forgot how infuriating that was.” Aurora stared at the old world map on the wall: red lines across Europe’s battered heart, Prague at the center, a pinhole scar. “Neither of us kept it together.” “Maybe.” Eva’s voice caught, nearly vanished amidst The Raven’s Nest’s hum. A couple squeezed past, trailing winter air. Eva pulled herself smaller, as if wishing for invisibility. “How’s your dad?” she asked. Unsteady. “Brendan always made the best stew when I came over.” Aurora’s hand tightened on her empty glass. “He’s fine. Retired last year. Still wants me to follow the plan and argue cases with him.” Eva smiled. “You always could win a fight.” Aurora pressed her lips together, tasting ghosts. “How’s Bristol? Or are you still in Bristol?” Eva stiffened. “No. Left. I—it wasn’t what I thought.” Neither one said more. Years ago, it would have been enough to bridge the silence: Eva, running from something; Aurora, already in flight. Eva traced the ring at her thumb, thin and silver, making slow, stubborn circles. “I heard about Evan,” she said, words falling into Aurora’s lap like stones. “On Facebook, ages back. You disappeared after that.” Aurora wished she didn’t flinch. “Didn’t think anyone would notice.” “I noticed.” The words were so soft Aurora barely heard them. “You could have called. Written. Anything.” She remembered the sting of blood at her wrist, the pressed shapes of fences climbed in the dark, how Eva’s voice on the phone could settle storms but never reach far enough. She wanted to explain, offer the shards of herself—exhaustion, fear, relief in being alone—but the words tangled. She shook her head and found Eva watching, hopeful, terrified. Eva’s voice thickened. “I’m sorry I left.” “I’m not,” Aurora said, surprising herself and Eva. She faced her old friend, straight-backed. “You got out. Before it all got ugly.” Eva’s face broke, old tears hovering at the edges. “Yeah, well. Some things you carry anyway.” They watched each other, older now, weathered. Aurora saw the hurt in Eva—the suspicion of herself, the apology she would never quite voice—and something inside her softened. She reached across the sticky veneer of the bar, knocked her knuckles lightly against Eva’s. Eva smiled. “Still want to hitchhike to Paris?” Aurora considered. “Still scared of getting murdered before Calais.” Eva’s laugh, this time, was genuine—deep, threading into the wood and the maps and the years of silence. They sat, battered and strange, in the warm, clattering amber of the Nest. Outside, the rain drove against the glass. The world pressed closer; here, in this fragment of London, they found a new shape to the distance between them, old regret softened by whisky and unspoken threads drawn taut beneath their skins. The past would not vanish. But it would not, tonight, claim the last word.