AI The green neon sign flickered above the doorway like a dying firefly, casting a thin halo on the rain‑slick pavement. Aurora paused at the curb, the hum of the city muffled by the night’s damp. She tucked the insulated bag from the Golden Empress into the strap of her messenger, the weight of the day’s deliveries pressing against her shoulder. The bar’s windows were dark, but a thin line of amber light seeped through the cracks, spilling onto the cracked tiles outside.
She had never meant to come back to this part of Soho. The flat above the Raven’s Nest was a convenient roof over her head, a cheap lease that let her keep a roof over her head while the city’s rent rose like a tide. But tonight, the city seemed to have a habit of pulling her back toward places she tried to forget.
The door swung open with a soft sigh, and the scent of stale beer mingled with the faint perfume of old wood and something metallic—perhaps the lingering tang of a bar that had seen too many late‑night deals. Aurora stepped inside, the dim light swallowing her silhouette. The walls were a patchwork of faded maps, their inked borders softened by time, and black‑and‑white photographs of faces she didn’t recognize. The photographs stared back with eyes that seemed to have been caught in a moment of quiet desperation .
She moved toward the bar, her boots making a soft thud against the worn floorboards. The hum of conversation was low, a murmur of voices that rose and fell like tide. In the far corner, a small bookshelf leaned against the wall, its spines a jumble of titles that hinted at a secret beyond the ordinary. The sight of it made Aurora’s pulse quicken; she remembered the stories Eva had whispered about the bar’s hidden back room, a place where whispers turned into deals.
Silas stood behind the bar, his back to the room, his silhouette framed by the green glow of the sign. He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broader, his hair now a mixture of auburn and grey streaks that caught the light like lichen on a stone. A neatly trimmed beard framed his jaw, each hair caught in a precise line, as if he had once been a soldier who still kept his uniform crisp. His left leg bore a slight limp, a subtle shift that made the bar stool under his weight creak.
Aurora’s eyes found the silver signet ring on his right hand, the little piece of metal catching the amber light and throwing a brief flash across the polished wood. She felt a flicker of something—perhaps recognition, perhaps something else—before the memory of the scar on her left wrist rose to the surface. The crescent‑shaped mark, a souvenir from a childhood accident, was still faintly pink under the skin, a reminder of a time when she could have been broken and not have been.
She took a breath, feeling the cool air fill her lungs, and walked up to the bar. The wooden surface was worn smooth by countless elbows and spilled drinks. Silas turned, his hazel eyes meeting hers with a mixture of surprise and something that lingered just beyond the surface.
“Rory?” he said, his voice low and measured , the kind of tone that could cut through a room full of chatter without raising his voice. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Aurora smiled, a thin line that didn’t quite reach the corners of her eyes . “Silas. It’s been a long time.” She placed the bag on the bar, the clink of metal against wood echoing softly . “I’m... just delivering a late order. The Golden Empress—”
He nodded, his gaze flicking to the bag, then back to her. “You’re still doing the deliveries, huh? I always thought you’d end up somewhere else, maybe in a courtroom.”
She let out a small laugh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the jukebox playing an old jazz tune. “I left the pre‑law track after a… a few years. It didn’t feel right. And then… things happened.” She brushed a strand of black hair behind her ear, feeling the scar on her wrist as she moved. “I needed a place to stay. The flat above your bar was… convenient.”
Silas’s eyes softened for a moment, a flicker of something that could have been regret. “I heard about the… the incident with Evan. I’m sorry, Rory. I should have been there.”
She felt a pang, a sharp sting that rose from the scar to her throat. “It’s not your fault, Silas. I made my own choices.” She swallowed, the words tasting like old wine. “I’ve been… trying to keep moving.”
He leaned against the bar, the weight of his limp shifting his posture, the silver ring catching a glint of light. “You always were good at thinking on your feet. I remember the night we snuck into the old library on the university campus, trying to find that hidden room in the basement. You were the one who figured out the lock.”
Aurora’s mind drifted back to that night, the smell of dust and old paper, the thrill of breaking rules. She remembered how Silas’s hand had trembled when he opened the door to the secret room, how the air had smelled of cold stone and something metallic—perhaps a hint of the past they both tried to leave behind.
“I think about that sometimes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper . “The secret room. The… the things we kept hidden.”
Silas’s gaze hardened for a heartbeat, then softened again. “The world changes, Rory. People change. I’m not the same man I was when we were in university. The knee injury… the ring… the bar. All of it… it’s a mask, but it’s also a shield.”
She felt the weight of his words settle on her chest. “I see that in you, Silas. The way you run this place, the way you keep the old maps on the walls. It’s like you’re trying to keep a piece of that past alive.”
He smiled, a faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. “And you, you keep moving. The deliveries, the flat above my bar. You’re always on the go, never staying long enough to… settle.”
Aurora’s eyes drifted to the bookshelf in the corner, the spines of the books a silent promise of hidden doors. “Do you ever think about the back room? The one behind the books?”
Silas’s hand tightened around a glass, the silver ring catching the light. “Only when I need to remember why I’m here.” He leaned forward, his elbow resting on the bar, his hazel eyes locking onto hers. “You know why I opened this place, Rory?”
She shook her head, the motion sending a tiny ripple through the scar on her wrist. “I guess I’m not sure.”
He took a slow sip, the glass clinking against the wood. “I was a field agent. MI6. I spent years chasing shadows, living in places where the night never ended. One botched operation in Prague left me with a knee that never healed, a mind that never truly rested. I needed a place where I could control the darkness, where I could keep the people I cared about safe. The bar became that place. The secret room… it’s a reminder that sometimes the safest places are the ones you hide behind.”
Aurora felt a sudden urge to reach out, to touch the scar on her wrist, to feel the pulse of her own history. “I’ve been trying to hide too,” she confessed, the words slipping out like a confession . “I left the law because I thought I could escape the weight of expectations. I thought I could run from… from everything. But the city has a way of pulling you back, doesn’t it?”
Silas’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the bar seemed to shrink around them, the neon sign outside a distant echo . “You can’t outrun yourself, Rory. You can only learn to walk beside it.”
She laughed, a short, breathless sound. “You always had a way with words.”
He raised an eyebrow , the silver ring glinting . “And you always had a way of getting into trouble.”
Their conversation fell into a comfortable silence , the kind that only old friends could share without needing to fill the gaps with chatter. The jazz tune swelled, a trumpet wailing a melancholy note that seemed to echo the unspoken regrets hanging in the air .
Aurora’s gaze drifted to a black‑and‑white photograph on the wall—a portrait of a young man in a uniform, his eyes fixed on something beyond the frame. She felt a strange kinship with the man, a sense that he, too, had been caught in a moment of decision, a crossroads of duty and desire .
“Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we’d taken a different path?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the music .
Silas’s eyes lingered on the photograph, his hazel irises reflecting the image. “All the time.” He set the glass down with a soft thud. “I think about the night you left the university, the night you walked away from the law, the night you ran from Evan. I think about the night I left the field, the night I opened this bar. We both made choices. Some were good, some were… necessary.”
She felt a chill run down her spine , as if the past had brushed against her skin. “Do you ever regret?”
He looked at her, his gaze steady, the scar on his left wrist—if he had one—hidden beneath his shirt. “Regret is a luxury. It’s a feeling that tells you you’ve lived too much for the moment you’re in. I have regrets, Rory. I have regrets about the people I lost, about the things I couldn’t protect. But I also have regrets about the moments I didn’t take, the words I didn’t say.”
Aurora’s breath caught. “I have regrets too. About the night I left Evan, about the night I didn’t call you when I needed help. I thought I could handle it on my own. I thought I could be… something else.”
Silas reached out, his hand hovering over the bar, his silver ring catching the light. “You’re still the same girl who could solve a puzzle in a hallway of lockers. You’re still the one who could think three steps ahead. The world may have changed, but you haven’t lost that spark.”
She felt the sting of tears, a salty taste at the back of her throat. “I’m not sure who I am anymore, Silas. The deliveries, the flat, the scar—everything feels like a mask.”
He placed his hand on the bar, the wood warm under his palm. “You’re not a mask, Rory. You’re a story that’s still being written. And sometimes, the best stories are the ones that have gaps, the ones that leave room for the next chapter.”
The neon sign outside flickered again, casting a brief green pulse across the room. The jazz trumpet swelled, then faded into a soft saxophone. Aurora felt the weight of the years lift, just a little, as if the bar itself was breathing with her.
She glanced at the bookshelf, the secret room behind it a silent promise. “Do you ever go in there?”
Silas’s eyes narrowed , the silver ring glinting as he considered his answer. “Only when I need to remember why I’m still here.” He leaned forward, his voice low. “There’s a file in that room—old maps, old contacts, a list of people who owe me favors. It’s a reminder that I’m not just a bartender. I’m still a keeper of secrets.”
Aurora felt a sudden curiosity, a pull toward the hidden door. “May I see it?”
He hesitated, the limp in his left leg shifting his weight . “It’s not for everyone. But you… you’ve always been good at finding doors, Rory.”
She smiled, the scar on her wrist catching a glint of the bar’s amber light. “Then let’s find it together.”
Silas stood, his movement deliberate, the silver ring catching the light as he lifted his hand. The limp in his left leg was a reminder of the past, a physical echo of the price he had paid. He guided her toward the bookshelf, his hand brushing hers briefly as they pushed the spines aside.
The secret room was small, its walls lined with maps that seemed to whisper of distant places, of missions that had never been completed . A single wooden table sat in the center, a stack of folders and a glass of amber liquid that had long since gone cold. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and something metallic—perhaps the lingering echo of a past that refused to be entirely buried.
Silas pulled a folder from the stack, the leather cracked and worn. He placed it on the table, his fingers lingering over the cover. “This is a reminder of who we were, Rory. It’s a reminder that we can’t escape the past entirely, but we can choose how we carry it.”
Aurora reached out, her fingertips brushing the leather. The scar on her wrist ached, a reminder of the accident that had once threatened to break her. She felt a strange kinship with the old maps, each line a path, each border a limit. She thought about the deliveries she made, the routes she knew, the way the city’s streets twisted like veins beneath the surface.
“This… this is a life I never imagined,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the soft hum of the bar’s ventilation.
Silas nodded, his hazel eyes softening. “And yet here we are, standing in a room that holds the ghosts of our past. The secret room is a place where we can see what we’ve become, and perhaps, what we still could be.”
She felt a sudden surge of gratitude, a fleeting moment of peace. “Thank you, Silas. For this… for remembering.”
He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Remembering is a form of loyalty, Rory. It’s the only thing that keeps us anchored when the world spins too fast.”
The neon sign outside pulsed again, a green heartbeat that seemed to sync with the rhythm of their conversation . The jazz tune swelled, a soft crescendo that carried the weight of unspoken regret and the promise of something new.
Aurora stood there, her eyes drifting over the maps, the photographs, the secret room that held the remnants of a life she had once imagined. The scar on her wrist was a reminder of a childhood accident, a small crescent that had never fully healed, just as the wounds of the past never fully faded. Yet, in this dimly lit bar, with the green neon glow casting a hopeful hue, she felt a sense of possibility.
Silas turned to her, his silver ring catching the light one last time. “You can stay as long as you like, Rory. The bar is yours as much as it is mine. The secret room is open to those who need it.”
She smiled, a genuine curve that reached the corners of her eyes. “I think I’ll stay for a while. I think I need to learn how to carry my past without letting it define me.”
He lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the bar’s light. “To old friends, new beginnings, and the spaces in between.”
Aurora lifted her own glass, the cheap plastic clinking against the metal. “To the weight of time, and the light that follows.”
The neon sign flickered once more, a green pulse that seemed to echo the rhythm of their hearts. The jazz trumpet swelled, then faded into a soft saxophone, the notes lingering like a promise in the night. In the dim glow of The Raven’s Nest, two old friends stood together, the weight of years and unspoken regret hanging between them, but also a quiet hope that perhaps, in this hidden room, they could finally find a way to move forward.