Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQZE9CFGEB67KEVR3M1M29

The green neon sign above the entrance buzzed with a low, insectile hum, casting a sickly emerald glow over the wet pavement of Soho. Inside The Raven's Nest, the air was thick with the scent of polished wood, stale beer, and the faint, metallic tang of rain drying on coats. Aurora Carter sat at the far end of the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty glass. She kept her left wrist tucked against the cool surface of the countertop, hiding the small crescent-shaped scar there, a white slash against her skin that reminded her of a childhood accident she could no longer remember clearly. Silas moved behind the bar with a rhythmic, uneven gait. The slight limp in his left leg was a metronome for the quiet room, a soft drag followed by a firm plant. He wiped a tumbler with a cloth, his hazel eyes scanning the room without really seeing it. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the dim light as he worked, flashing briefly before disappearing into the fold of his sleeve. He was a man composed of quiet angles and silenced histories, his grey-streaked auburn beard neatly trimmed, hiding the tension in his jaw. Rory liked the silence of the Nest. It was a buffer between her and the city, between the delivery shifts at Golden Empress and the flat above where she tried to sleep without dreaming of Cardiff. She had been in London long enough to feel the edges of her old life dulling, but not long enough to stop flinching when a door slammed too hard. The bell above the door chimed, sharp and intrusive. A gust of cold air swept in, carrying the smell of wet wool and exhaust. Rory didn't look up immediately. She rarely did. But she felt the shift in the room's pressure, a sudden tightening in the atmosphere that made the hair on her arms stand up. She lifted her gaze. Standing in the doorway, shaking water from a umbrella, was a woman with familiar eyes. Eva. The name landed in Rory's chest like a stone dropping into a well. They had not spoken since the night Rory fled Cardiff, leaving everything behind except the clothes on her back and the phone call that brought her to Silas. Eva had been the one to tell her to run. Eva had been the one to hold her hair back when Evan's shouting became too much. And then Rory had vanished into the London fog, and the calls had stopped. Eva scanned the room, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. The walls were covered in old maps and black-and-white photographs, faces of strangers staring down at the patrons. When Eva's gaze landed on Rory, she froze. She looked older than twenty-five, the lines around her mouth deeper, her posture hardened by a city that hadn't offered her an escape route. Rory should have looked away. She should have slipped off the stool and gone up the stairs to her flat. Instead, she stayed rooted, her bright blue eyes locking onto Eva's. Eva walked over. The heels of her boots clicked on the floorboards, stopping just short of Rory's stool. Silas paused in his wiping, his hand resting on the counter near his ring. He didn't intervene. He knew better than to interrupt the ghosts when they arrived. I didn't think you'd be here, Eva said. Her voice was rougher than Rory remembered, stripped of the Welsh lilt that used to soften her vowels. I live above the bar, Rory said. The words felt clumsy in her mouth. She hadn't practiced this conversation. Eva nodded, looking around the dim interior. The green neon light from the window washed over her face, making her look slightly ill. You look different. So do you. It wasn't true, not entirely. Eva looked like what Rory would have become if she had stayed. There was a heaviness to her shoulders, a resignation in the way she held her purse. Rory knew she herself looked different too. The fear that used to live permanently in her eyes had been replaced by a cool, calculated vigilance. She was smarter now. Harder. Silas slid a glass of water toward Eva without being asked. He moved with the quiet authority of a man who had seen too much to be startled by emotional reunions. He gave Rory a brief, almost imperceptible nod before turning away to tend to a bottle rack, giving them the illusion of privacy. Eva wrapped her hands around the glass. I tried to call you. After you left. I changed my number. I know. Evan told me you were dead for a while. Said you overdosed in a hostel somewhere. Rory's hand tightened on her own glass. The crescent scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom pain. He wanted you to think that. He wanted a lot of things. Eva looked up, meeting Rory's gaze directly. I stayed, Rory. I didn't run. I thought... I thought maybe I could help him. Stop him. The regret hung in the air between them, heavier than the smoke that used to fill rooms like this. Rory looked at her friend, really looked at her, and saw the bruises hidden under the makeup, the way Eva flinched when Silas dropped a shaker behind the bar. The weight of time wasn't just in the years passed; it was in the choices made during the silence. Rory had chosen survival. Eva had chosen loyalty to a broken past. You can't fix him, Eva, Rory said softly. I know that now. Eva took a sip of water. I just wanted to see you. To know you were real. Rory reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before she placed it over Eva's. She didn't hide her scar this time. Let her see it. Let her see the mark of a life that had been broken and put back together differently. I'm real, Rory said. And I'm not going back. Eva turned her hand over, gripping Rory's fingers. Her skin was cold. I don't want you to. I just... I miss my friend. Rory looked at Silas. He was watching them from the shadows near the secret room, the bookshelf behind him slightly askew. He caught her eye and gave a slow blink. He knew what it cost to leave things behind. He knew what it cost to stay. I'm right here, Rory said. But I can't be who I was. Neither can I. They sat in the silence of the bar, surrounded by maps of places neither of them would ever visit. The green neon buzzed overhead. The limp of the barkeep echoed in the quiet. Two women who had been girls together in Cardiff, separated by violence and distance, sitting in the dim light of a Soho sanctuary. There was no fixing the past, no erasing the years of silence. There was only the present moment, fragile and tense, and the unspoken agreement that they would not let go until the water in the glass was gone.