Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRCNMFWJV0XA117WFZF040

The bell above the door chimed softly as Aurora pushed her way into The Raven's Nest, the November wind chasing at her heels. She shook rain from her black hair, already damp from her delivery rounds across the city. The familiar dim lighting and the scent of aged wood and whiskey offered a strange comfort after hours navigating London's wet streets. Her shoulders ached from carrying boxes of noodles and dumplings from Yu-Fei's restaurant, and the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed, a phantom ache from the childhood accident that had left its permanent mark. At twenty-five, Rory sometimes felt much older, particularly on days like this when the cold seeped into her bones and memories of Cardiff seemed a lifetime away. The bar was quiet for a Thursday evening. Only a handful of patrons occupied the shadowed corners, their murmurs blending with the low jazz playing from speakers hidden somewhere in the exposed rafters. She slipped onto a stool at the far end of the polished mahogany bar, away from the others, and rested her chin in her hands. Behind the bar, a man polished a glass, his movements methodical and precise. Grey-streaked auburn hair caught the low light as he turned, and something about the set of his shoulders, the quiet authority in his posture, tugged at the edges of her memory. She watched him for a moment, trying to place where she might have seen him before. His hazel eyes scanned the room with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to observing details others might miss. He approached her end of the bar, setting down the glass with a soft click. His left leg moved with a slight limp she hadn't noticed from her previous angle. "What can I get you?" he asked, his voice deeper than she expected, with an undercurrent of gravel that seemed at odds with his well-kept appearance. "Whiskey, please. Single malt if you have it." A small smile touched his lips. "We have it. Any particular preference?" "Surprise me," she said, returning his smile with a weary one of her own. As he turned to retrieve a bottle from the shelf behind him, her gaze caught the silver signet ring on his right hand. Something clicked—a memory fragment from years ago, a different time, a different version of herself. When he turned back, placing the drink and a small glass of water before her, she studied his face with renewed attention. The neatly trimmed beard, the lines around his eyes, the grey that had claimed more territory in his hair since she'd last seen him. It couldn't be. "Aurora Carter," he said, his voice soft but certain. "I thought that was you." The sound of her full name—not Rory, not Laila, but Aurora—sent a shiver down her spine. Only people from her past, from before London, called her that. "Silas?" she breathed, the name foreign on her tongue after all these years. "Silas Blackwood?" "The one and only," he said, leaning forward against the bar, his weight shifted slightly to favor his right leg. "It's been what, six years? Maybe seven?" "Six and a half," she said automatically, then wondered why she'd kept track. "I didn't recognize you. Your hair..." He touched his beard self-consciously. "Time catches up with us all eventually. You, though—you haven't changed a bit. Except maybe for the scar." His eyes flickered to her wrist. "I remember when that happened. You were trying to climb that tree in the park, weren't you?" Aurora instinctively covered the small crescent-shaped mark with her other hand. "You remember that?" "I remember a lot of things about you, Aurora. Your father would bring you to the club sometimes when you were home from school. You used to sit in the corner reading while the adults talked politics and law." She took a sip of whiskey, the burn familiar and grounding. "I'd forgotten you knew my father. From his chambers, was it?" Silas nodded, polishing another glass though it didn't need it. "We had some overlapping cases. Your father's a brilliant barrister. I always wondered why you didn't follow him into law." Aurora's grip tightened on the glass. "I tried. Cardiff University, Pre-Law. It wasn't for me." "You seemed so certain back then," Silas said, his hazel eyes searching hers. "You had that fire. That determination." "People change," she said, perhaps more sharply than she intended. "They do," Silas agreed quietly. "I never pictured myself as a bartender, that's for certain." Aurora looked around at the old maps covering the walls, the black-and-white photographs of London streets through the decades. "The Raven's Nest. It's yours, then? I live upstairs, actually. Flat 3B. Small world." "Small indeed," Silas said, a strange expression crossing his face. "Though I suppose you didn't know it was my establishment when you moved in?" She shook her head. "The agency just said it was available. Reasonable rent, good location. I didn't ask many questions." She paused, studying the maps more closely now. "These aren't just decorations, are they?" Silas followed her gaze. "No. Not all of them, anyway. Some are... sentimental. Others are practical." He changed the subject smoothly. "What brings you to London, if not the law? Last I heard, you were still in Cardiff." The question hung between them, loaded with years of separation. Aurora took another sip of whiskey, gathering her thoughts. How much to tell him? This man who had been a peripheral figure in her teenage years, who had once shown her how to properly hold a pool cue and told her stories about his "government work" that her father had dismissed as exaggeration. "Life happened," she said finally. "I left university. Left Cardiff. Needed a fresh start." "Because of Evan?" Aurora's head snapped up. "How did you know about Evan?" "Your father mentioned it. Once." Silas's voice was carefully neutral. "He was worried about you. Said you'd gotten involved with someone who wasn't good for you." A bitter laugh escaped Aurora. "That's putting it mildly." Silas's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Aurora. Truly. No one should have to go through that." The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. She looked down at her glass, watching the light refract through the amber liquid. "I'm alright now. Working delivery. Trying to figure out what comes next." "At twenty-five, you've got time to figure it out." "And at fifty-eight?" she countered, then immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry. That was rude." Silas waved away her apology. "At fifty-eight, I'm still figuring it out. My knee doesn't work like it used to." He gestured to his left leg. "Prague operation went sideways. That's when I decided it was time to retire from fieldwork. Open this place instead." "Prague?" Aurora leaned forward, intrigued despite herself. "I remember you telling me stories when I was a kid. I thought you were making half of it up." "I never lied to you, Aurora," Silas said, his eyes meeting hers with sudden intensity. "Maybe omitted some details. But never lied." The weight of time stretched between them again, filled with all the conversations they hadn't had, all the years that had passed. Aurora suddenly remembered Silas at her father's Christmas party, pulling her aside to tell her that she was smarter than she realized, that she didn't have to follow anyone's path but her own. She had been sixteen, full of plans for law school, trying so hard to please her parents. "Did you know?" she asked quietly. "Back then, did you know I wasn't cut out for law?" A hint of a smile touched Silas's lips. "I knew you were trying to be someone you thought you should be, rather than who you were. But that's a lesson most of us have to learn the hard way." "And what about you?" Aurora gestured around the bar. "Is this who you are? A bartender in Soho?" Silas's fingers traced the silver signet ring on his right hand. "This place is a front. Always has been. Just like before, only different now. Less dangerous, perhaps. But the work... the work continues in its own way." He paused, studying her face. "You were always so perceptive. Even as a kid, you noticed things others missed." "Not perceptive enough to get myself out of a bad relationship before it got worse," she muttered. "We all have our blind spots." Silas refilled her whiskey without asking. "Your father was proud of you, you know. Even when you left law school." Aurora's eyes stung. "He has a funny way of showing it. We barely speak now." "He didn't understand why you left Cardiff. But he understood why you left Evan." Silas leaned closer, lowering his voice. "He told me once that he'd rather see you happy delivering takeaway than miserable in a courtroom." The words struck Aurora with unexpected force. She had been so focused on her father's disappointment in her abandoning law school that she hadn't considered his relief at her escape from Evan. "I should call him," she said, more to herself than to Silas. "You should." Silas glanced at the clock behind the bar. "It's getting late. I need to close up soon." "Oh, right. Sorry." Aurora stood, pulling her coat tighter around herself. "I didn't mean to keep you." Silas came around from behind the bar, his limp more pronounced now. "Aurora, wait." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. "If you ever need anything—a job, help, just someone to talk to—call me. This place may look like just a bar, but it's more than that. And so am I." She took the card, turning it over in her fingers. It was simple, just the bar's name and a phone number, no other information. "Why?" she asked. "Why help me after all this time?" "Because you reminded me of myself once. Full of potential, not quite sure which direction to go." Silas's hazel eyes held a depth she hadn't noticed before, a weight of experience and something resembling regret. "And because I owe your father. He helped me when I needed it most." Aurora hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged him briefly, awkwardly. "Thank you, Silas." "Any time, Aurora." He walked her to the door, holding it open for her. The green neon sign cast an eerie glow on the wet pavement outside. "And don't be a stranger. The flat upstairs may be yours, but consider this your local, too." She stepped out into the London night, the rain having slowed to a drizzle. As she looked back, Silas stood in the doorway of The Raven's Nest, a solitary figure against the warm light of the bar. For the first time in years, Aurora felt the faintest glimmer of something like hope, a possibility of reconnection not just with her past, but with a future she had yet to imagine.