Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQRSGC1HR5H8Q20SJHH2V8

Rain scratched at the windows of The Raven’s Nest, distorting streaks of neon green across the old city glass. The bar offered shelter to those who found comfort in shadows—a handful of regulars, old jazz slurring through the speakers, and a bartender whose name carried more weight than any bottle behind him. Aurora Carter stepped inside, the evening’s chill still clutching her. Water dripped from the hem of her coat, forming a delicate constellation on the warped wooden floor. She kept her head down, swept her black hair behind her ears, scanning for a familiar face, although she knew Silas preferred to vanish into his back room when the world outside knocked too loudly. She moved towards the counter, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist, a nervous ritual from days better forgotten. Only three strangers at the bar tonight: a couple lost in their phones, a third man hunched over a notebook, pen gliding furiously. Aurora slid onto a free stool and waited, gaze tracing the maps along the wall, lines crisscrossing continents and decades. The whole place smelled of old books and lemon polish. Behind the counter, a shadow stirred. Silas Blackwood leaned forward on his good leg—when had his hair gone so grey? The beard suited him, carved his jawline sharp as ever, but the limp was more pronounced now, almost rhythmic in its inevitability. He wore his silver signet ring, still bright against his tired knuckles. His hazel eyes flicked up, landed on her, narrowed for a breath before widening with something like recognition. “Funny seeing a ghost in my bar.” His voice cracked with the gravel of too many early mornings. “You hidden from the rain or from something else, Rory?” She let his words settle, then shrugged out of her coat, pooling it on her lap. “Rain’s the least of my problems. You serving whisky or just stories tonight, Silas?” He tugged a glass from the shelf, no hesitation in the precise movements. “Depends. You want the good stuff, or have your tastes gone as bland as your choice in umbrellas?” Aurora smirked. “Go on, impress me.” He poured, no theatrics. The whisky caught the dull light, amber rippling. She took a sip, flames curling in her chest. “Better,” she said. “No offense, but you look like you went twelve rounds with a steamroller.” He ran a hand through his hair — auburn flickered, still clinging to life beneath the frost. “And you,” he gestured with his glass, “look like you finally buried that wild child I used to know.” Aurora bristled, jaw tense. “That was a long time ago.” “Was it? In my head, last week.” He leaned in, elbows pressed to dark wood, voice lowering. “How’s Eva?” “She’s—” Aurora hesitated. “Running. Like always.” Silas grunted, something unreadable settling behind his eyes. “You two used to be inseparable. Cardiff pub crawls, those idiotic late-night debates over chess moves. When did that become running?” Aurora picked at the label on her glass. “People change.” He tipped his head, a thousand stories caught in that look. “Hell, if that isn’t true. Thought I’d seen every face you wore, Rory. Now you got new ones?” A beat. She exhaled, feeling the weight of old laughter threatening to surface. “Had to. London’s not Cardiff. Things—got complicated.” Silas limped around the bar, propped himself on the adjacent stool. “So what brought Miss Complicated to my door tonight? Wasn’t nostalgia.” Aurora’s bright blue eyes drifted to a photo pinned behind the counter—Silas in Prague, younger, sharper, standing beside someone with a blurred-out face. “Curiosity, maybe. Or I just wanted to remember what safe felt like.” “Safe.” The word clanged between them. “Raven’s Nest, haven for broken wings. Never thought you’d be the one nesting.” “I’m not nesting, Silas. I deliver food, and I sleep in a bedsit above dodgy plumbing. I just—needed a drink.” He searched her face. “Who’re you running from now?” She squeezed her wrist. “Nobody that matters.” “Not what I asked.” He let the statement hang, heavy as smoke. “You asked for stories. Here’s one: people let time pile on them, till they can’t stand up straight. That why you’re bent over your glass?” Aurora traced a knot in the wood. “You ever wish you could start over? Not a big thing. Just—one evening, one wrong turn. Fix it. Avoid the regrets.” Silas considered this, lips twitching under the beard. “Wish, sure. Regret, always. Had a hundred chances for clean slates. Never took one. Habits like that, they get at your bones.” They sat a moment in silence, only the hum of a cooler breaking the quiet. “Was it worth it?” Aurora asked, voice thin. He flexed his good knee, and pain flickered in his eyes—ancient, permanent now. “Didn’t die, did I? Worth has nothing to do with it.” “That why you opened this place?” He shrugged, silver ring flashing. “Bars and spies. Both trade in secrets. Easier to hide behind a bottle than a gun.” Aurora’s gaze drifted to the bookshelf in the corner, slightly askew. “Still running a side-business through there?” Silas raised an eyebrow. “Only for old friends with worse secrets than mine.” Aurora almost smiled. “You still play chess, Silas?” He snorted. “Not since you wiped the board clean in under seven moves. My pride never recovered.” “Your pride was never the point.” He looked at her properly, none of the crowd around—just a mentor and the bright-eyed girl she’d been crushed under new layers. “Alright then, what’s the point, Rory?” She gripped her glass, knuckles pale. “I don’t know anymore. Every choice feels heavier now. Even coming here.” Silas studied her. “You know what’s funny about time? It’s not the years. It’s the things you don’t say. The people you never call back, the apologies you keep in your pocket for a rainy day that never comes.” Aurora’s mouth curled, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Is this your idea of comfort?” “It’s honesty. We’re old enough for that.” The rain beat harder against the windows, a desperate rhythm. Aurora finished her whisky, throat pulsing as the liquid burned. “You remember that night in Aberystwyth—the last time we all got together?” Silas’s face clouded, memory cutting deep. He nodded. “You said,” she continued, “every mistake’s a lesson, so long as you don’t make it twice.” “That was a lie,” Silas interrupted. “But I meant it. We all hoped for better.” She let her hand fall, palm open on the counter, as if surrendering to some silent referee. “Do you ever wish I’d stayed? Left London. Gone back.” Silas shook his head, gaze unwavering. “You left for a reason, Rory. If you returned, you wouldn’t be you. Pain lingers, but so does purpose. Even when it looks nothing like you pictured.” They listened to rain and old jazz, the world outside dim and indistinct. Aurora finally leaned back. “I suppose I owe you a game, then.” His grin broke free, shaking the dust off forgotten camaraderie. “Only if you promise not to take it easy.” “After tonight? Not a chance.” Silas reached below the bar, sliding a battered chess set towards her. “Rory, I’ll let you have white. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” She settled in, fingers hovering over the pawn. The weight between them eased—not vanished, but acknowledged, made manageable by ritual and memory. Old friends played a quiet game, lost in the bright and wounded present, across pieces that remembered more than they let on.