Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQS01R44DE7FZGJAT1D9T9

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of late-night patrons and the clink of glasses, the green neon sign flickering softly above the entrance, casting a ghostly glow through the cigarette smoke that curled like silent ghosts in the dim light. Aurora Carter slid through the door, the bell barely ringing above the muted jazz leaking from the old speakers. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, a habit more from habit than cold. She scanned the room briefly, nodding at the familiar faces she’d come to trust here. The barkeep, Silas Blackwood, was at the far end, polished glass in hand, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the dim lights while his hazel eyes flicked over a notebook with a gravity that pulled the room's ambient tension tighter. That limp of his was always there, but tonight, it was like some invisible weight pressed heavier on it. Aurora’s gaze shifted beyond Silas, and then she stopped. A figure sat at the end of the bar – taller than she'd remembered, someone she hadn’t expected to see tonight. A glance. A sharp flick of recognition. The same dark hair, but now peppered subtly with silver strands, shoulders broader, his posture both weary and taut with the kind of restraint only years can temper. “Simon?” The name escaped before she could catch herself. Her voice was quieter than she planned, but it struck sharply in the thick air between them. He turned, surprise flickering behind his guarded gaze, but then a small, almost painful smile traced his lips. “Aurora. Rory.” The old nickname hung between them like a fragile bridge, half-built and vulnerable. She swallowed, memories rushing. The girl who fled Cardiff, the nights whispered over thrown stones and shared secrets. Now a woman who’d carried sharp edges and scars both visible and hidden. “Simon, it’s been—what? Ten years?” He nodded, the crease between his brows deepening. “Time’s a thief that way.” The silence grew. Around them, conversations rippled in waves, but here, at the bar’s end, the present shrank to the space carved out by their fragile reunion. “You look… different,” Aurora finally said, shifting on the worn leather stool. Her bright blue eyes searched his face, trying to unearth the boy she’d known. Simon chuckled softly, a sound she recalled once held warmth. “I’d say the same about you. I expected more of the Rory who used to disappear into books and dreams.” “I’m still plenty of those.” Her words hung with a sharpness she couldn’t fully suppress. The scar on her wrist twitched involuntarily as she absently brushed her sleeve over it—a crescent-shaped monument to innocence lost long ago. Simon studied her, the lights catching the small crescent scar she no longer tried to hide. “You carry it like a ghost.” “I do,” she said, voice low. “It reminds me who I am. Or what I’ve tried to be.” His eyes flickered. “And here I thought scars faded with time.” Aurora smirked, though the tightness in her chest pulled the expression taut. “Scars don’t fade. They dull, maybe. But they don’t disappear. You either learn to live with them or let them define you.” Simon leaned forward, the slight limp catching her attention before she refocused on his face. “That sounds like advice I might have expected from Raven’s Nest’s legendary Spymaster.” She laughed softly and glanced toward Silas, who now watched them with a knowing eye, fading back into the shadows of his bar’s sanctuary. “That old fox,” Aurora whispered, “always playing two steps ahead.” Simon’s expression became unreadable. “He’s done more for me than I can say. More than I ever thanked him for.” Aurora gave him a pointed look. “You owe him side bets and favour slips like a kid running wild in the system.” Simon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And what have you owed Silas?” Her eyes drifted to the silver signet ring glinting on his right hand. She remembered those countless nights spent in this very bar, plotting escapades that never quite left the ground. “A lot. More than I care to admit.” The ache of unspoken histories pressed in. The things left unsaid. “Do you ever think about how different things might’ve been?” Simon asked, voice barely above the murmurs flowing through the bar. Aurora hesitated, fingers tightening around the glass she hadn’t touched yet. “Sometimes. But the past is a map with too many roads never taken.” He nodded. “I never did get the courage to follow any of those roads.” She caught the flicker of regret in his face. “Neither did I.” A quiet settled between them, the years folding in on themselves. The person sitting before her, once so certain and bright, now guarded and tempered by experience, was a stranger she knew too well. “So what brought you back to London?” she asked, voice steady. Simon’s smile was bittersweet. “A dead end, mostly.” Aurora’s brow lifted. “You’re always better at finding new beginnings. Or inventing them.” Simon shrugged. “Sometimes new beginnings come in the form of revisiting old ghosts. Places like this.” He gestured briefly at the bar, the familiar maps on the walls, the scent of aged wood and spilled secrets. She studied him. “You’re not the same Simon I knew. And I’m certainly not the Rory you remember.” “You’re right.” The way his eyes locked with hers was earnest, unguarded. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe it’s why we’re here — two changed souls figuring out what’s left after the dust settles.” Aurora let out a slow breath, the air tasting heavier somehow. “Are we ghosts, then? Or just shadows?” He smiled wryly. “Maybe somewhere between.” The bartender called out a low order, his voice grounding them both back into the moment. Silas approached, his limp more pronounced but stride purposeful. “Rory. Simon. I see the past finally caught up with you.” Aurora leaned toward Silas with a half grin. “Old ghosts and shadows, just like you said.” Silas chuckled and cast a knowing look their way. “Well, then, let’s see what trouble the three of you can still get into before this night’s over.”