AI The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest cast a sickly glow over the wet pavement as Aurora Carter pushed open the heavy oak door. The bar was dimly lit, as always, the walls covered with yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs of places and people who seemed to belong to another era. The air smelled of old wood, whiskey, and something vaguely like rain.
Rory shook the water from her black hair and scanned the room, looking for an empty seat. It was Tuesday, early enough that the regulars hadn't yet claimed their spots. She had just finished her delivery shift at Golden Empress and wanted nothing more than a quiet drink before retreating to the flat upstairs. Her feet ached in their worn trainers, and the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist tingled—a phantom sensation that sometimes surfaced when she was tired.
Then she saw him.
At first glance, she almost didn't recognize Silas Blackwood. Four years had passed since she'd last seen him, though it felt like a lifetime. The grey in his auburn hair had spread like frost, and the lines around his eyes had deepened into canyons. But it was the way he moved that truly caught her attention—a pronounced limp in his left leg that hadn't been there before, or at least hadn't been so apparent.
He stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with methodical precision, his silver signet ring catching the low light. He looked older, wearier, and yet somehow more himself than ever.
Rory hesitated. Should she approach him? Would he even remember her after all this time? They had parted on strange terms—her leaving Cardiff in a hurry, him understanding more than he had let on about her reasons for fleeing.
As if sensing her presence, Silas looked up. His hazel eyes met hers across the room, widening slightly in recognition. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, and he set down the glass with deliberate care.
"Well, I'll be damned," he called out, his voice carrying that familiar quiet authority that had once intimidated her and now strangely comforted her. "Aurora Carter. As I live and breathe."
Rory managed a smile and approached the bar, her heart beating faster than she would have liked. "Hello, Silas. It's been a while."
"Four years, three months, and approximately twelve days," he said, pouring her a glass of red wine without asking what she wanted. Some things never changed. "But who's counting?"
"You, apparently," she said, sliding onto the stool. She accepted the wine and took a sip, the familiar taste grounding her. "How have you been?"
Silas leaned against the back counter, adjusting his weight slightly to favor his good leg. "The world keeps turning, my dear. The bar does well enough. The knee acts up when it rains, which is essentially always in this godforsaken city." He paused, studying her face. "What about you? Eva mentioned you were back in town, but she didn't say you'd moved into the flat upstairs."
Rory's grip tightened on her wine glass. "I needed a fresh start. Cardiff was... well, you know why I left."
Silas nodded, his expression unreadable . "Evan. I should have known something was wrong when you wouldn't let me meet him. Should have done something."
"There was nothing to do," Rory said, perhaps too quickly . "It was my mess to clean up."
"Was it?" Silas's voice was gentle but probing. "Or were you just too proud to ask for help?"
The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken regret. Rory looked away, focusing on a faded map of Prague on the wall behind him. The same map that had been there the first time they met, when she was just nineteen and he was the mysterious older friend of her father who had taken an interest in her future.
"I saw your father last month," Silas said, changing the subject. "He asks about you. Worries."
Rory snorted. "He has a funny way of showing it. Last we spoke, he told me I was throwing away my life by dropping out of Pre-Law."
"Parents say stupid things when they're afraid," Silas said, his fingers tracing the rim of his own glass. "Brendan was proud of you, Rory. He just didn't know how to say it without pushing you toward what he thought was best."
"And what do you think is best for me?" The question slipped out, more vulnerable than she intended.
Silas's eyes softened. "I think you're exactly where you need to be. Doing exactly what you need to be doing."
"Delivering Chinese food and hiding in a bar?" Rory shook her head. "Some would call that wasting potential."
"Some people don't understand survival," Silas said quietly. "Or healing."
The silence stretched between them, comfortable yet charged with all the things left unsaid over the years. Rory could see the weight of his own regrets in the lines of his face, the way his hand occasionally drifted to his knee as if to soothe an old ache.
"What really happened in Prague?" she asked, knowing she was crossing a line. "All Dad ever said was that it was a 'botched operation.' Vague even for him."
Silas's expression closed off, his eyes growing distant. "Some stories aren't mine to tell. Some wounds don't need to be reopened."
"Is that why you're here?" Rory gestured around the bar. "Playing barkeep instead of... whatever you were before?"
"This is more than a bar, Rory. You know that." He lowered his voice. "It's a listening post. A place where information flows as freely as the whiskey. Where I can still make a difference without getting myself killed."
"Or without anyone else getting killed," she said softly .
Silas flinched almost imperceptibly. "Yes. That too."
A group of loud tourists entered the bar, their cheerful chatter breaking the moment. Silas straightened up, putting on his professional face as he moved to serve them, his limp more pronounced when he was tired.
Rory watched him work, amazed at how seamlessly he shifted between the man she knew—the one with secrets and shadows in his eyes—and the friendly barkeep greeting customers. She wondered how many other people in her life wore such convincing masks.
When Silas returned, he slid a plate of olives and bread in front of her. "Eat something. You're too thin."
Rory laughed. "Still trying to take care of every one, even when they don't ask for it?"
"Old habits." He leaned on the bar, facing her directly. "What are you really doing here, Rory? Besides hiding from Evan and disappointing your father?"
The directness of the question caught her off guard. She had expected small talk, catching up, not this immediate excavation of her life.
"I don't know," she admitted, surprising herself with her honesty. "I thought I knew—get away, start fresh, figure out who I am without Evan, without my parents' expectations. But most days, I just feel... adrift. Like I'm waiting for something to happen but not sure what."
Silas nodded slowly , as if she had confirmed something he had long suspected. "You've always been a thinker, Rory. Too much for your own good sometimes. But you're also a doer when it counts."
"Am I?" She traced the scar on her wrist with her thumb. "Sometimes I think I've spent my whole life running away from things rather than toward them."
"We all have regrets," Silas said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Things we wish we'd done differently. People we wish we'd fought harder to keep." He paused, his gaze intense. "The trick isn't to avoid regret. It's to learn to carry it without letting it crush you."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Rory felt tears pricking at her eyes, a rare occurrence these days. She had built walls around herself after Evan, constructed a fortress of indifference and self-reliance. But Silas had always known how to find the cracks.
"I missed you," she said, the admission costing her more than she expected. "When I first came to London, I thought about calling you. But I was ashamed of how I left Cardiff. Of who I had become."
Silas reached across the bar and placed his hand over hers, his silver signet ring cool against her skin. "You're exactly who you're supposed to be, Rory. That's the thing about time—it changes us, but it doesn't necessarily break us. Not if we're strong enough to bend."
As the bar began to fill with the evening crowd, Rory found herself relaxing into the familiar comfort of Silas's presence. The years fell away, and yet they remained, a tangible weight that somehow felt lighter now that they were acknowledged.
"Stay for closing," Silas said, as if reading her mind. "We can talk more then. There's something I want to show you."
Rory nodded, a genuine smile spreading across her face for the first time in months. "I'd like that."
In the dim light of The Raven's Nest, surrounded by maps of places they had both been and photographs of people they had both lost, Aurora Carter felt something she hadn't felt in a very long time: hope.