Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQVZYJVPF7BZ5NCHCB8C1B

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of late-night patrons, the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the dim glow of the green neon sign outside. Rory wiped her hands on her apron, balancing a tray of empty pint glasses against her hip as she weaved between tables. The bar was busier than usual, the kind of crowd that spilled over from the pubs down the street, looking for something darker, quieter. She didn’t see him at first. Not until she turned to slide the tray onto the counter and nearly collided with a man leaning against the bar, his hazel eyes fixed on her with the kind of quiet amusement that made her stomach twist. "Christ, Rory," Silas said, his voice rough around the edges, like gravel underfoot. "You still move like you’re dodging landmines." She froze. The glasses on the tray rattled. "Silas?" He hadn’t changed—not really. The same auburn hair, streaked with grey now, the same neatly trimmed beard, the same silver signet ring glinting on his right hand. But his face was thinner, the lines around his mouth deeper, and that slight limp in his left leg was more pronounced than she remembered. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost," he said. Rory exhaled, sharp and unsteady. "I thought you were in Prague." "Was." He tapped his fingers against the bar. "Came back six months ago. Bought this place." She glanced around, as if the walls themselves might have shifted in his absence. The Raven’s Nest. Of course. The old maps, the black-and-white photographs—she’d always assumed they were just decor. Now she wondered how many of them had his fingerprints on them. "You didn’t think to call?" she asked. Silas shrugged. "Didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me." The words hung between them, heavy as the smoke curling from the ashtray beside him. Rory set the tray down with a little too much force. "That’s not—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I looked for you. After." His jaw tightened. "I know." A beat of silence. The kind that stretched too long, too thin. "You’re working here now?" he asked, nodding at her apron. "Part-time. Delivery mostly." She tugged at the hem, suddenly self-conscious. "Pays the rent." Silas nodded, slow and deliberate. "Still living above the bar?" "Same flat." "Good." He exhaled, long and low. "That’s good." Rory wanted to ask why it mattered. Wanted to ask why he’d left without a word, why he’d let years pass without so much as a postcard. But the question stuck in her throat, tangled in the memory of the last time she’d seen him—standing in the doorway of her parents’ house, his face unreadable, his voice steady as he told her he had to go. She’d begged him to stay. She wouldn’t beg now. Instead, she said, "You want a drink?" Silas hesitated, then nodded. "Whiskey. Neat." Rory poured it without looking at him. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass, and she wiped it away with her thumb, the burn of the alcohol sharp against her skin. Silas took the glass, his fingers brushing hers. "You still take sugar in your tea?" The question caught her off guard. "What?" "Tea," he said. "You used to drink it like syrup." Rory blinked. "That was years ago." "Right." He took a sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "You always did like things sweet." She wanted to laugh. Wanted to tell him he had no idea what she liked anymore. But the words died on her tongue, smothered by the weight of everything unsaid. The bar hummed around them, a living thing, breathing in the scent of spilled beer and old wood. Rory leaned against the counter, her shoulder brushing the edge of the till. "So. The Raven’s Nest, huh? Bit on the nose for a retired spy." Silas smirked, just a little. "Thought it had a nice ring to it." "Clever." "Always were the smart one." She rolled her eyes. "And you were the one who thought he knew everything." His smirk faded. "Still do, sometimes." The air between them thickened, heavy with the ghosts of old arguments, old wounds. Rory traced the rim of her own glass, the condensation slick under her fingers. "You ever think about how things could’ve been different?" Silas didn’t answer right away. He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the light catch the liquid. "Every damn day." Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to reach for him. Wanted to shake him. Wanted to turn back time and make him stay. But time didn’t work like that. She took a breath. "You ever miss it? The work, I mean." Silas set his glass down. "Sometimes. Mostly I miss the people." Rory’s throat tightened. "Yeah. Me too." He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment, she was twenty again, standing in the rain outside her parents’ house, her heart in her throat as she watched him walk away. Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar toward her. "Found this in an old file. Thought you might want it." Rory unfolded it. A photograph. Black and white. Her and Silas, younger, grinning like idiots in front of some café in Paris. She didn’t remember the trip. Didn’t remember the moment the photo was taken. But she remembered the way his hand had felt in hers, warm and steady. She folded the photo back up and tucked it into her apron pocket. "Thanks." Silas nodded. "You working tomorrow?" "Yeah." "I’ll be here." Rory didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know if she believed him. But for the first time in years, she let herself hope.