Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFCVTBWWZ2XQ4AVC8GD3Z7

The rain had just stopped when Aurora pushed through the door of The Raven's Nest, shaking droplets from her delivery bag. The familiar smell of old wood and whiskey wrapped around her like a blanket, and she nodded to Silas behind the bar. He was polishing glasses with his usual methodical precision, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the green glow from the neon sign that bled through the front window. "Rough night out there?" Silas asked, not looking up from his work. "Could be worse." Aurora set the bag on the bar and rolled her shoulders. "Mrs. Chen's order took me halfway across London in that downpour." "You're dripping on my floor." "Your floor's seen worse." She grabbed a bar towel and dabbed at her face, then froze. In the mirror behind the bottles, she caught sight of a figure hunched over a table in the corner. The man's shoulders were broader now, his hair cut short instead of the artistic mess she remembered, but she knew that particular way he held his whiskey glass—two fingers underneath, thumb on the rim, like he was afraid it might escape. "Christ," she breathed. Silas followed her gaze. "Friend of yours?" "Used to be." The words came out harder than she intended. She ran a hand through her wet hair, aware suddenly of how she must look—delivery uniform damp and clinging, mascara probably smudged despite its waterproof promises. Not that it mattered. Not anymore. "Want me to ask him to leave?" "No." Aurora straightened her shoulders. "No, it's fine." She walked over before she could think better of it, each step measured and deliberate on the worn wooden floor. He looked up when she was three feet away, and his face went through a series of expressions—surprise, something that might have been joy, then careful neutrality. "Rory." He set down his glass. "I didn't know you were in London." "Three years now." She remained standing, hands loose at her sides. "Mind if I sit?" "Please." He gestured to the chair across from him, and she noticed a wedding band that hadn't been there before. "You look... different." "So do you, Marcus." The name felt strange in her mouth after so long. "Married, I see." He glanced at his ring like he'd forgotten it was there. "Two years last month. Sarah. She's a pediatric nurse." "That's nice." Aurora settled into the chair, aware of Silas watching from the bar. The old maps on the walls seemed to press closer in the dim light. "Still painting?" "Not really. I'm in finance now. Derivatives trading." He took a sip of whiskey. "The money's good." "I'm sure it is." They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of unspoken history thick between them. The last time she'd seen him, they'd been twenty-two, drunk on cheap wine and possibility in her tiny Cardiff flat. He'd had paint under his fingernails and dreams of gallery shows in Paris. She'd been halfway through her law degree, already feeling the walls closing in. "I heard about you and Evan," Marcus said finally. "I'm sorry." Aurora's hand went unconsciously to the crescent scar on her left wrist, hidden under her sleeve. "Old news." "Still. I should have—" He stopped, jaw working. "I should have said something. Back then. We all knew he was..." "It's done." She kept her voice level, but her fingers found the edge of the table, gripping hard. "Eva helped me get out. That's all that matters." "Is that why you're here? In London?" "Among other reasons." She watched him fidget with his glass. The Marcus she'd known never fidgeted. He'd been all graceful movements and easy confidence, the kind of person who made you believe anything was possible if you just wanted it enough. "How's your mother?" "Good. Still teaching at the university. She asks about you sometimes." "Tell her I said hello." "I will." He leaned forward slightly. "Rory, I need to tell you something. About that night—" "Don't." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "Whatever you were going to say, just don't." "You don't even know what—" "I know enough." Aurora stood, the chair scraping against the floor. "It was good to see you, Marcus. Really. But we're not those people anymore." "Maybe that's the problem." His voice had an edge now, something raw underneath the polished exterior. "Maybe we gave up too easily." "Gave up?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You think I gave up? I survived. There's a difference." "Is there? Look at us. I'm pushing numbers around a screen all day, coming home to a house in Clapham that looks like every other house on the street. You're—" He gestured vaguely at her uniform. "Is this really what you wanted?" "What I wanted stopped mattering a long time ago." Aurora pulled her delivery bag over her shoulder. "But at least I'm not pretending otherwise." Marcus flinched like she'd slapped him. "That's not fair." "No?" She tilted her head, studying him. The expensive haircut, the tailored shirt, the watch that probably cost more than she made in six months. All of it carefully constructed to hide the artist who used to stay up until dawn, covered in oils and turpentine, talking about how color could change the world. "When's the last time you picked up a brush?" "I don't have time—" "You have time. You just choose to spend it differently." She softened slightly, seeing the pain flash across his face. "And that's okay, Marcus. We all make choices. But don't sit there with your derivatives and your pediatric nurse and your house in Clapham and tell me I'm the one who gave up." He was quiet for a long moment, turning his glass in circles on the scarred wooden table. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I loved you, you know. Back then." "I know." Aurora's throat felt tight. "But back then was a different world." She turned to go, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist—the scarred one. His thumb brushed over the raised line of tissue through her sleeve, and they both froze. "I'm sorry," he said, and she knew he wasn't talking about grabbing her. "For all of it. For not being braver. For choosing the easy path. For showing up here tonight and reminding you of things better left buried." Aurora gently extracted her wrist from his grip. "We were kids, Marcus. Kids make mistakes." "Do you ever think about what might have been? If we'd made different choices?" She looked at him for a long moment, this stranger wearing her friend's face. Behind the bar, Silas had stopped pretending to polish glasses and was watching openly, ready to intervene if needed. The black-and-white photographs on the walls stared down at them, frozen moments from other people's lives, other people's choices. "Every day," she admitted. "But thinking about it doesn't change anything." Marcus nodded slowly, understanding finally dawning in his eyes. "Take care of yourself, Rory." "You too." She walked back to the bar, her footsteps steady despite the tremor in her hands. Silas poured her a whiskey without asking, and she knocked it back in one burning swallow. "Old boyfriend?" he asked mildly. "Old friend." Aurora set the glass down carefully. "Just someone I used to know." "Ah." Silas refilled her glass. "Those are the worst kind." She looked back once as she headed for the stairs to her flat. Marcus was still sitting at the table, staring at his wedding ring like it held answers to questions he'd never learned to ask. The green neon from the sign painted his face in shades of regret, and for a moment she saw him as he'd been—young and fearless and full of impossible dreams. Then she blinked, and he was just another stranger in a Soho bar, carrying the weight of choices that couldn't be undone. The stairs creaked under her feet as she climbed to her flat, each step taking her further from the past and the people they used to be. Outside, the rain had started again, drumming against the windows like fingers tapping out a rhythm of what if, what if, what if. But Aurora had learned long ago not to listen to the rain.