Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR7MME3VCEND9R67Z0VQ1B

The amber light from the bar's vintage fixtures caught the condensation on Aurora's pint glass as she traced its rim with her finger, watching the foam settle. The Raven's Nest felt particularly quiet tonight, even for a Tuesday. Silas moved behind the bar with his familiar economical grace, the slight hitch in his left leg barely noticeable after all these months of watching him work. The green neon sign outside cast shifting shadows through the front window, painting the old maps on the walls in an ethereal glow. She'd come down from her flat above seeking the comfortable silence of the bar, needing distance from the cramped space that still felt temporary despite living there for over a year. The delivery job at Golden Empress paid enough to keep her fed and sheltered, but it left too much time for thinking. Too much time to remember Cardiff, her father's disappointed sighs, Evan's hands around her wrist— "Rory?" The voice froze her blood. She knew that voice, though it carried a roughness now that hadn't been there before. Slowly, she turned on her barstool. Marcus Webb stood in the doorway, backlit by the green neon, and for a moment she might have walked past him on the street. The lanky boy she'd known at Cardiff had filled out, his shoulders broader beneath a worn leather jacket. His dark hair, once perpetually tousled, was shorter now, streaked with premature grey at the temples. But it was his eyes that made her stomach clench—the same warm brown, but hollowed out somehow, like rooms with all the furniture removed. "Marcus." His name felt strange on her tongue. "Christ, how long has it been?" "Four years." He approached the bar cautiously, as if she might bolt. "Maybe five." Silas appeared at her shoulder, his hazel eyes assessing the newcomer with the quiet intensity that never fully left him. "Friend of yours?" "University," Aurora said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Marcus, this is Silas. He owns the place." Marcus extended his hand, and Silas shook it with his customary firm grip, the silver signet ring catching the light. "What can I get you?" "Whiskey. Neat." Marcus slid onto the stool beside Aurora, careful to leave space between them. "Whatever you've got." The silence stretched as Silas poured, the amber liquid catching the light like Aurora's beer had moments before. She studied Marcus's profile, noting the new scar along his jaw, the way his hands shook almost imperceptibly as he lifted the glass. When he'd been at Cardiff, studying philosophy with the fervor of someone who believed ideas could change the world, his hands had been steady as stone. "So," she said finally. "London treating you well?" His laugh held no humor. "Something like that." He drained half the whiskey in one swallow. "What about you? Last I heard you were following daddy's footsteps into law." "That didn't work out." The words came easier than expected. "I deliver Chinese food now." "Rory Carter, rebel." But there was something brittle in his smile. "Your father must be thrilled." She picked at the label on her beer bottle, feeling Silas's presence like a steadying hand even though he'd moved to the other end of the bar, polishing glasses with methodical precision. "We don't talk much anymore." "Join the club." Marcus signaled for another whiskey. "Though I suppose that's what happens when you disappoint people professionally." There was something in his tone that made her look at him sharply. The Marcus she'd known had been passionate about everything—about Nietzsche and Kant, about the pub quiz team they'd dominated every Thursday, about the girl from his Victorian Literature seminar who'd broken his heart sophomore year. This version of him spoke with the flat affect of someone who'd learned not to care too much about anything. "What are you doing these days?" she asked. "Freelance journalism." He stared into his whiskey as if it held answers. "Mostly investigative stuff. You know, the kind of stories that make powerful people uncomfortable." Silas's glass-polishing paused almost imperceptibly, and Aurora caught the subtle shift in his attention. Her landlord had developed an ear for trouble, a talent from his previous life that retirement hadn't dimmed. "Sounds dangerous," she said. "Sometimes." Marcus's fingers found the scar on his jaw, worrying at it. "Got this in Belfast six months ago. Apparently, asking questions about disappeared funds makes certain parties nervous." The casual way he said it chilled her. This wasn't the boy who'd argued passionately about the ethics of civil disobedience in their Political Philosophy seminars. This was someone who'd learned to carry violence like a familiar weight. "Marcus—" "Remember that night senior year?" he interrupted, his voice suddenly urgent. "After finals, when we walked along the Taff until sunrise? You said you wanted to matter. To do something that would make the world better." She remembered. They'd been drunk on cheap wine and the intoxicating possibility of their futures, spinning grand plans under the Cardiff stars. She'd told him about her dreams of human rights law, of fighting for people who couldn't fight for themselves. He'd talked about exposing corruption, about journalism as a noble calling. "I remember." "We were so fucking naive." He finished his second whiskey. "I thought if I just dug deep enough, told the truth loud enough, something would change. But the truth doesn't matter if no one wants to hear it. And powerful people have long memories." Aurora's chest tightened. She recognized the hollow resignation in his voice because she'd felt it herself, in smaller ways. When Evan's grip left bruises she covered with long sleeves. When her father's disappointed silence became louder than any argument. When she'd realized that sometimes survival meant making yourself smaller, quieter, less. "Is that why you're in London?" she asked gently. "Had to leave Belfast quickly. Turns out when you poke the wrong bear, geography becomes important." He turned to face her fully for the first time since sitting down. "What's your excuse?" The question hung between them like a challenge. She could deflect, make light of it, keep the conversation surface-level. But something in his broken honesty demanded its equal. "Ran away from a man who thought I belonged to him." The words felt like stones in her mouth. "My friend Eva helped me disappear." Marcus's expression shifted, the cynicism cracking to reveal something raw underneath. "Christ, Rory. I'm sorry." "Don't be. I got out." She touched her left wrist unconsciously, feeling the small crescent scar through her sleeve—not from Evan, but older, a childhood accident that somehow felt connected to every hurt that had followed. "We both got out, didn't we? From whatever was destroying us." They sat in silence, the weight of shared understanding settling between them. Outside, London hummed its restless song, indifferent to their small revelations. Silas had moved to the far end of the bar, giving them privacy while maintaining his watchful presence. "I used to think about you sometimes," Marcus said quietly. "Wonder if you became the lawyer you dreamed of being. If you were saving the world." "I thought about you too. Figured you were probably winning Pulitzers by now." "We both ended up somewhere else entirely." Aurora nodded, studying his face in the amber light. The boy she'd known was still there, buried under years of disappointment and danger, but recognizable in the way he still tilted his head when thinking, still drummed his fingers against his glass in the same unconscious rhythm. "Are you happy?" she asked, surprising herself with the question. Marcus considered it seriously, which she appreciated. Another person might have deflected with humor or false bravado. "Some days," he said finally. "When I'm working on something that matters, when I think maybe I can still make a difference, even a small one." He paused. "What about you?" Aurora looked around the bar—at the old photographs on the walls, at Silas quietly tending his domain, at the green light filtering through the windows. This wasn't the life she'd planned, but it was hers. Safe, small, but hers. "Some days," she echoed. They talked until closing, filling in the gaps of years with carefully chosen details, dancing around the deeper wounds while acknowledging their existence. When Marcus finally left, promising to keep in touch this time, Aurora helped Silas stack chairs and wipe down tables. "Old friend?" he asked as they worked. "Someone I used to know." She considered it. "Someone I'm still getting to know, I think." Silas nodded, understanding passing between them without need for explanation. They finished their work in comfortable silence, and Aurora climbed the stairs to her small flat, carrying the strange lightness that comes from discovering that the past, however changed, hasn't entirely disappeared.