Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR8D1SVF60MGBCY6NZPMJW

The bell above the door chimed as Aurora Carter stepped into the Raven’s Nest, the green neon sign outside flickering across her bright blue eyes. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, tuning out the droning chatter in the front room. The bar smelled of oiled wood and stale smoke, the low hum of voices punctuated by the hiss of beer on tap. Maps—ancient, yellowed—lined one wall in faded frames; black-and-white photographs of London streets and weathered faces covered the other. She’d climbed the narrow stairs from her flat half a dozen times without once pausing to look around. Tonight felt different. Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with slow, deliberate strokes. His grey-streaked auburn hair fell in soft waves around his neat beard. He wore a well-worn blazer over a button-down shirt, and on his right hand gleamed the silver signet ring she remembered from childhood visits—though “childhood” felt alien now, like another life. He glanced up as she approached, his hazel eyes catching hers for an instant. He lifted a brow but said nothing. Aurora forced a smile. “Evening, Silas.” He nodded once, setting the glass aside. “Rory.” He used the old nickname—something she hadn’t heard in years. It twisted in her chest. “The usual?” She hesitated. The “usual” was a half-pint of something dark and bitter, something to sharpen her edge before she headed back upstairs to finish her legal reading. But she had no appetite for work tonight. “Actually,” she said, voice catching, “I was hoping you might… be open to a chat.” He gave her a patient look. “Find a seat. I’ll be there in a moment.” She drifted to a corner table, her fingers brushing the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist without realizing it. She remembered when she’d gotten that, aged eight, chasing a squirrel and tripping over the garden wall at her parents’ house in Cardiff. At twenty-five, chasing squirrels seemed ridiculous. Yet somehow she still felt scratched by life. Silas joined her with a stout glass of stout. He set it down. He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, as though weighing the words she hadn’t yet spoken. Then he turned away, limping slightly on his left leg, and began wiping the bar top. Aurora inhaled, tapped her scarf, then exhaled. She scanned the room. It was early—just after six—but half the tables held regulars nursing their first rounds. She wasn’t here for them. She was waiting. At the door, the bell chimed again. A man poked his head in. He looked rougher than she remembered—fewer freckles, a sharper jaw, shoulders that carried something heavier than books or late-night assignments. He paused in the doorway, drinking in the dim light, then stepped inside. She saw him before he saw her. Her heart thudded so hard she thought it might echo off the low ceiling. The man—Nathan Fraser—launched himself forward, scanning the room as if searching for a ghost. She pressed her palm to the grain of the table, hiding the tremor. He locked eyes with her. For a moment, neither of them moved. The hum of voices faded at the edges. Then he walked across the varnished floor, leaving a trail of small taps as his boots met each board. With each step, the years between them—six, to be precise—pressed heavier against her ribs. “Aurora?” His voice was deeper now, lined with gravel. “Rory?” She laughed, a short, shaky sound. “Nathan.” The name felt like a handshake half-remembered. “It’s been awhile.” He paused in front of her table. She studied him. The boy she’d known at Cardiff University had carried himself with shy curiosity, a stack of casebooks under one arm. He’d had dark curls that fell into his eyes. Now his hair was cropped close; his suit fit with exacting precision. He looked at her as though she’d slipped out of a dream. “How long,” he said, then caught himself. “I mean—how long have you been here?” “Just moved in.” She gestured toward the staircase tucked beside the bar. “Flat above.” His mouth twitched. “Funny. I’ve been here three years.” He looked around, then back. “I never knew.” She pressed her hands together under the table, felt the catch in her throat. “I keep odd hours.” Her voice was barely above the baritone murmur. “Delivery job at the Golden Empress. I ride my bike all over Soho.” He sank into the chair opposite her. “You look…” He searched for words. “Different.” Not better. Not worse. But her face carried a hardness she didn’t recognize in the bright-eyed student he’d known. “You okay?” She sipped her stout, the bitter warmth settling in her belly. “I am now.” He once prided himself on reading her, teasing out secrets. Tonight, he hesitated, his gaze flicking to Silas behind the bar. “That’s him, isn’t it?” She followed his glance. Silas was talking quietly with another patron, leaning forward, elbows on the counter. The alcove behind him hinted at the secret room she’d never dared enter. “Professor Carter told you—” “Nobody told me anything.” He shook his head. “I came looking for someone else.” He glanced at her wrist. “Bad skin?” Aurora touched the small crescent scar, swallowed a word. “Childhood thing.” He leaned back. “I’m sorry I… vanished. After graduation, you probably tried to call.” His voice dropped. “I couldn’t—my dad got sick. Cancer.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I left Cardiff for Manchester to help out. Then paper work. Then a transfer. I thought I’d write. You’d understand, right?” Her chest tightened. She had understood—so deeply it had hurt—years ago, when she watched him drift out of her life without a trace. But she held onto her calm. “Manchester law firm?” she asked. He nodded. “Special counsel. Corporate stuff.” He paused, as though ashamed. “I hate it.” She saw him as he must have wanted to be—brimming with ambition in Starling’s lecture hall, notes scribbled in the margins. Now ambition had turned concrete and hollow. The corners of his eyes carried shadows. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have called.” He shook his head again. “No. It’s me who owes you an apology.” He rubbed his temples. “I left you hanging when I should’ve told you what was happening.” He exhaled. “My dad died last year. I’ve been… stuck. Didn’t want you to see me like that.” She leaned forward. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He swallowed. “Thanks.” He exhaled. “I almost didn’t come in tonight. I was just walking by—heard that familiar neon glow.” “Silas keeps it on all night,” Aurora said. “Something about a signal, to say there’s always a place to talk.” He managed a small half-smile. “He has a way of making people feel seen.” His gaze turned inward. “You look good. You seem… at ease.” Her fingers found the scar again. “I’ve had to be.” She thought of Evan—the ex she’d fled. The court papers she filed. The nights she lay awake above the bar, too afraid to breathe. “London’s been… complicated.” He reached across and covered her hand. His thumb brushed the crescent mark. “I wish I’d been here.” She stared at their joined hands, stunned by the pang it loosened. “I wish you had.” Silas moved to refill her glass. He set another half-pint before Nathan without breaking stride or glance. Aurora caught Nathan’s eye as Silas drifted away. There was warmth there, a quiet generosity that cut across the years of silence. Nathan sipped. The amber liquid caught the bar lights. “Tell me what you’ve been doing, really.” He sounded almost an investigator. “Not the job. The life.” She hesitated, then let her story spill out in measured sentences: the early mornings at the Golden Empress, shifting through steaming trays of dumplings and noodles; the evenings at Silas’s bar, reading case law or brooding over pages she couldn’t concentrate on; the nights she stayed up planning the next day’s escape—which never came. She noticed how his eyes softened when she mentioned her scar, how he frowned at the mention of Evan. He didn’t ask for details, just listened. When at last she paused, there was silence. Then Nathan exhaled and shook his head. “I’m proud of you,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to see you do it.” She blinked back unfamiliar tears. “You’re here now.” He smiled, a genuine thing that lit his face. It felt like an offering. Then he stood, reached into his suit pocket, and pulled out a worn leather notebook. He flipped to a blank page and wrote something, tearing it out and sliding it across the table. Her name and number, printed in neat script. “I’ll call,” he promised. She touched the paper, smiling through the knot of emotion. “I’ll answer.” They sat in silence a moment longer, companions again across the gulf of years. A low murmur washed over them as Silas returned to the bar, but for now the world beyond their table could wait. Under the green neon glow, in the hush of the Raven’s Nest, Aurora and Nathan found a fragile redemption: a chance to say the words they’d carried quietly in their hearts, the words time had stolen but hadn’t destroyed.