Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR7BVDFJ1CG976S7E4QAQ3

The green neon sign above The Raven's Nest cast its familiar glow onto the wet pavement as Rory pushed through the heavy door, shaking rain from her jacket. The Tuesday evening crowd was thin—a couple of regulars hunched at the bar, a businessman nursing whisky in the corner booth. She'd come down from her flat hoping for the solitude that only existed in a half-empty bar, where company was optional and silence was respected. She slid onto a stool and caught Silas's eye. He was polishing glasses at the far end, his movements economical and practiced. He gave her a slight nod, already reaching for the bottle of Jameson he kept on the middle shelf. The door opened behind her. Rory didn't turn—just another patron seeking shelter from the October rain. But then she heard a voice that stopped her breath mid-draw. "Christ, this place hasn't changed a bit." Her fingers tightened on the glass. She knew that voice. Lighter than she remembered, carrying an affected brightness that hadn't been there before, but unmistakably familiar. "Eva?" The woman who'd been scanning the room froze. Her eyes—still that distinctive amber-brown—went wide. "Rory?" For a moment, neither moved. Eva looked different. Her hair, once a wild mass of dark curls she'd constantly complained about, was now straightened and highlighted with expensive-looking honey tones. She wore a tailored coat that probably cost more than Rory made in a month, and her makeup was flawless in a way that spoke of professional application. But it was her expression that struck Rory most—that careful, practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "What are you..." Eva crossed the floor in quick steps, her heels clicking against the worn wood. "God, I can't believe it's you." Rory stood, accepting the embrace that followed. Eva smelled like perfume she didn't recognize, expensive and foreign. They pulled apart, and Eva's hands lingered on Rory's shoulders, her gaze traveling over Rory's face with an intensity that felt almost clinical. "You look good," Eva said. "London suits you." "You told me to come here." The words came out sharper than Rory intended. Something flickered across Eva's face. "I did, didn't I?" She laughed, but it sounded hollow. "That feels like another lifetime." Silas materialized beside them with his characteristic quiet efficiency. "Friend of yours, Rory?" "Yes," Rory said, as Eva said, "Old friends." The slight emphasis on 'old' hung in the air. "What'll you have?" Silas asked Eva, his hazel eyes assessing her with the cool attention of a man who'd spent decades reading people. "Just wine. White. Whatever you have open." Eva slipped onto the stool next to Rory's, setting her expensive handbag on the bar. "I'm surprised to find you here. I thought you'd be—I don't know—at some law firm by now. Your dad must be thrilled you're still in London." Rory took a long sip of whiskey. "I'm not in law." "Oh?" Eva's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. "What happened to Pre-Law? You were always so determined. Even when we were kids, you had it all planned out." "Plans change." "They do," Eva agreed, accepting the wine glass from Silas. She took a delicate sip. "I'm in marketing now. Digital strategy. Got a flat in Kensington. Small, but the location's perfect." She laughed again, that same brittle sound. "Listen to me, talking about real estate like I'm forty." "You always said you wanted to do something creative." Rory traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with her thumb, an old habit that surfaced when she was uncomfortable. "Photography, wasn't it?" Eva's smile tightened. "That was a hobby. You can't make a living doing that sort of thing. Not really." The businessman in the corner called for another round. Silas moved away, his slight limp barely noticeable tonight. The maps on the walls—Prague, Berlin, Istanbul—seemed to watch them from the shadows. "So what do you do?" Eva asked. "If not law?" "I deliver Chinese food." Eva blinked. Once. Twice. Then she smiled, and this time it was almost genuine, touched with something that might have been pity. "You're joking." "Part-time. For Yu-Fei's place on Gerard Street." "Rory." Eva set down her wine glass. "What happened? You were brilliant. Top of our year. Your parents must be—" "My parents don't know I'm here." The silence that followed felt weighted. Through the front window, rain streaked down in silver rivulets, distorting the lights of Soho into watercolor smears. "You didn't tell them?" Eva's voice had gone soft. "About Cardiff? About why you left?" "You mean about Evan?" Rory met her old friend's eyes. "No. I didn't tell them." Eva looked away first. "I'm sorry I couldn't—I wanted to help more, but Marcus thought it was better if—" "Marcus?" "My fiancé." Eva held up her left hand. A diamond caught the dim light, tasteful but substantial. "We've been together two years. He's in finance. Very stable. Very..." She trailed off, seeming to lose her momentum. Rory studied the ring, then Eva's face. "Congratulations." "Thank you." Eva pulled her hand back, tucking it into her lap. "He's good to me. That's what matters, right? Someone who's good to you." "Is he?" "What?" "Good to you." Eva's amber eyes flashed. "Of course he is. He's perfect. Everything my mum always said I should look for." Her voice had taken on a defensive edge. "Not everyone can just run away and reinvent themselves, Rory. Some of us have to be practical." "I didn't run away." "Didn't you?" Eva picked up her wine glass again, swirled it. "Cardiff, your degree, your whole future—you just left it all behind." "You told me to come to London. That night on the phone, you said I could stay with you, that I needed to get out." "I know what I said." Eva's knuckles were white on the stem of the glass. "But then Marcus and I had just started dating, and it would have been complicated, and I thought—I thought you'd be better off figuring things out on your own. You're good at that. You always were." Rory felt something cold settle in her chest. "You asked me to come. I got on a train with one bag because you said you'd help me." "And you landed on your feet, didn't you? You've got a flat, a job—" "I sleep above a bar and deliver takeout, Eva." "That's not my fault." Eva's voice rose slightly. One of the regulars glanced over. She lowered it again. "I couldn't fix your life for you, Rory. I had my own things to deal with." Silas had returned, moving bottles around with deliberate slowness, clearly listening. Rory caught his eye and saw something there—not pity, but understanding. The look of someone who'd seen plenty of friendships founder on the rocks of time and disappointment. "I should go," Eva said, reaching for her handbag. "Marcus is expecting me for dinner." "Of course." Eva pulled out a sleek card case, extracted a business card, and placed it on the bar between them. Her name in raised lettering: Eva Whitmore, Digital Strategy Director. "If you ever want to grab coffee or something. Catch up properly." Rory looked at the card but didn't touch it. "Sure." Eva stood, smoothing her coat. For a moment, she hesitated, and Rory saw something crack in her polished exterior—a glimpse of the girl who'd called her at midnight years ago, laughing about something stupid, making plans for a future that had never materialized. "I did want to help," Eva said quietly. "I just didn't know how." "I know." Eva nodded. She touched Rory's shoulder once more, a brief pressure, then walked toward the door. The green neon sign illuminated her face as she paused on the threshold, looking back. "You always were the brave one," she said. Then she was gone, back into the rain. Rory sat motionless, staring at the business card. Silas refilled her glass without being asked. "Old friends are like old photographs," he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone who'd learned truths the hard way. "Sometimes the memory is better than the reality." Rory picked up the card, turned it over in her fingers, then set it back down. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the streets clean, carrying everything away into the darkness where the city swallowed all regrets, all might-have-beens, all the versions of themselves they'd left behind.