Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR2M9DSCD7K4AG5WG8KHGM

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest cast a faint, emerald glow onto the rain-slicked pavement. Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, the chime above her head announcing her arrival. The usual murmur of the bar washed over her—the clink of glasses, the low thrum of conversation, the distant blues music from the jukebox. She took a deep breath, the familiar scent of aged wood, stale beer, and something like old paper filling her lungs. Silas, behind the bar, looked up, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. His neatly trimmed beard, streaked with grey and auburn, twitched in a slight smile. "Evening, Rory. Busy night on the deliveries?" "You know it," she said, shrugging off her damp jacket. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair, usually pulled back, hung a little loose around her face. "Yu-Fei had me running all over creation." She settled onto a stool at the far end of the bar, near the wall adorned with old maps and black-and-white photographs—silent, watchful eyes that seemed to follow her. Silas limped over, a slight unevenness in his left leg. He placed a frosted glass in front of her. "The usual, then?" She nodded. "Please. My feet are killing me." She absently rubbed the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit from childhood. At twenty-five, she was tired, but an old kind of weariness that had nothing to do with her day job. Something inside her always felt a little frayed. He poured her a crisp lager, the foam rising in a perfect head. “Anything interesting out there?” he asked, leaning against the polished wood. Rory took a slow, deep sip, letting the cold liquid wash over her tongue. “Just another Tuesday. Almost ran over a pigeon outside Covent Garden, if that counts.” He chuckled, a low rumble. "Exciting stuff." She’d just started telling him about a particularly rude customer when the chime above the door sang again. Rory didn't even glance up, too engrossed in her tale of lukewarm dim sum and a demanding solicitor. A figure walked past her, towards the bar. She heard Silas’ voice, then, a little surprised. "Brendan?" Rory froze. The name hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Her heart hammered against her ribs. No, it couldn’t be. Not here, not now. She slowly turned, her bright blue eyes wide. Standing a few feet away, talking to Silas, was a man. His back was to her. He was taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders. The black suit he wore was impeccably tailored, the fabric catching the dim light in a subtle sheen. A faint scent—expensive cologne, not the familiar scent of home—drifted towards her. Silas gestured, his silver signet ring flashing on his right hand. "Rory, look who it is." The man turned. Her breath hitched. It was him. Or a ghost of him. Brendan Carter. Her father. His once kind, weary eyes now held a sharp, shrewd glint she didn’t recognize. His dark hair, once a shaggy mess she used to run her fingers through, was now meticulously styled, a few silver threads catching the light at his temples. He looked… harder. And older, in a way that wasn’t just the passage of time. His jaw was set, his lips a thin line. There was a confidence in his posture she’d never seen, a rigid self-assurance that made her stomach clench. "Rory?" His voice was deeper, an unfamiliar note of surprise in it. He didn’t sound like the Brendan who used to read her bedtime stories, or who’d patiently taught her how to play chess on rainy afternoons in Cardiff. She slid off the stool, her legs feeling oddly weak. "Dad?" The word felt foreign on her tongue, rusty from disuse. A small, almost imperceptible frown creased his brow. "Aurora. What are you doing in a place like this?" His gaze swept over her, taking in her practical delivery uniform, the slight weariness around her eyes. It was a look she knew well, one of assessment, of judgment. The initial shock of seeing him after two years, after leaving Cardiff and everything behind, curdled into something colder. "I live here, actually. Upstairs." She tilted her chin, resentment simmering. "What are *you* doing here?" He gestured vaguely. "Business. I'm in London for a few days." His eyes flickered to Silas, as if seeking confirmation. Silas merely wiped the bar, his expression neutral. "Business?" Rory echoed, a bitter laugh escaping her. He’d never been this put-together, this… important, while she was growing up. Her father, the barrister, had always been a little rumpled, a little overwhelmed. This man wasn't him. "Yes. A rather significant acquisition." He spoke with a quiet pride, a new kind of authority in his voice. "Your mother is quite pleased." Her mother. The mention of Jennifer, her kind, gentle mother, felt like a deliberate blow. And it was. He knew. Knew that would hurt. "Right." Rory gripped the edge of the bar, her knuckles white. "She always wanted you to 'aim higher,' didn't she? To 'reach your full potential'." The words were clipped, laced with sarcasm she couldn’t hide. Brendan's jaw tightened. "Aurora, you always had a knack for making things sound… less than they are." He finally stepped closer, a polite, almost formal smile gracing his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "How have you been? Eva tells me you're… working." He knew. The way he hesitated before "working," the subtle emphasis, it implied she hadn't *chosen* this life. That she'd fallen into it. And Eva? Her childhood friend, the one who’d helped her escape Evan, the abusive ex. Had Eva been talking to her father? That thought stung more than anything. "I'm fine," she said, her voice flat. "And yes, I work. For a living. Something you always found rather… quaint, for a woman, didn't you?" His smile faltered. "That's not fair, Aurora. I always wanted the best for you. A barrister, like me. You displayed such a remarkable aptitude for the law." His gaze lingered on her, a ghost of the old ambition in his eyes. "And I ran from it," she finished for him, a sharp edge to her voice. "Just like I ran from everything else." The words were out before she could stop them, flung across the space between them like stones. His expression hardened. "That... situation with Evan. It was regrettable. But you amplified it, Aurora. Made it into something it wasn't." Rory’s blood ran cold. *Amplified it?* The memories flashed: the shouting, the fear, the broken vase, the bruising grip. Her hand instinctively went to her left wrist, tracing the old scar, a habit she thought she’d broken. He’d never understood. He’d never even tried. "Evan almost broke me, Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And you stood by and watched, tut-tutting about 'youthful indiscretions'." He sighed, a weary but dismissive sound. "That’s quite enough, Aurora. We won't rehash the past in a public establishment." He looked around The Raven’s Nest, a subtle disdain in his eyes for the dim lighting, the worn elegance, the very air she breathed. "You seem… comfortable here." The implication hung in the air: too comfortable for someone of her intellect, her background. Too comfortable for someone who had "aimed higher." "I am," she said, defiantly. “It’s home.” He shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible movement. "Your mother worries, you know. Running off to London. Living in… circumstances such as these." "Circumstances?" Rory felt a cold fury rising. "Silas has been more of a father to me in the past two years than you ever were!" Silas, who had been quietly polishing glasses, paused. His hazel eyes met hers, a silent understanding passing between them. Brendan’s face went rigid. "That's an outrageous statement. I provided for you, Aurora. A good home, an excellent education. Everything a child could need." "You provided a life you wanted for me," she retorted, her voice rising now, the blues music on the jukebox the only thing preventing their conversation from becoming a full-blown spectacle. "Not the life I wanted. I just wanted you to *see* me, Dad. The real me. Not the barrister you wanted me to be, not the quiet daughter. Just me." He stared at her, his once familiar face a mask she barely recognized. The sharp glint in his eyes was still there, unwavering. "You made your choices, Aurora. And now you live with them. I suggest you remember that." He turned to Silas, extending a hand that looked surprisingly firm and unburdened. "Silas, it was a pleasure. Do keep an eye on my daughter, won't you? She seems…prone to mischief." The comment felt like a calculated dismissal, belittling her and their ruptured relationship in one stroke. Silas took his hand, his expression still unreadable. "Of course, Brendan. Always." Brendan gave Rory one last, appraising look, devoid of warmth, devoid of the father she remembered. Then he walked towards the door, his expensive suit jacket swaying with the confident breadth of his shoulders. The chime rang again, announcing his departure. Rory stood there, rooted to the spot, the echo of the chime reverberating in the quiet of the bar. The blues music seemed to grow louder, mournful and heavy. Silas came around the bar, his limp more pronounced as he moved towards her. He gentle placed a hand on her shoulder. "You alright, kiddo?" Rory swallowed, her throat tight. The anger had drained out of her, leaving behind an aching hollowness. "He's changed, Si. He's not… he's just not him." "People do, Rory," Silas said softly. "Sometimes for the better. Sometimes…" He left the thought unfinished. "He seemed rather… successful." "He is," she said, a bitter taste in her mouth. "He finally became the man he always wanted to be. The ambitious one. The one who pushed me into a life I hated." She looked at her lager, neglected and flat. "He thinks I’m a failure." Silas squeezed her shoulder. "He thinks what he wants to think, Rory. But it doesn't make it true. You're here. You're breathing. You found your way." He paused, his gaze kind. "And you didn't amplify anything. You survived." Rory leaned into his touch, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek, leaving behind a cold track in its wake. The old maps on the wall seemed to blur through her tears, the black-and-white photographs of far-off places silently bearing witness to a reunion that had been anything but. Two years, and the chasm between them had only grown wider. The weight of time, and all the unspoken regrets, pressed down on her, heavy and unyielding.