Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQYGHXF0XXCR5EHEWSZRDJ

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged oak and spilled ale. Green neon from the sign outside slashed across the floor. Photographs in battered frames crowded the walls. Maps pinned to cork gave the room a patchwork of a time long gone. Aurora stepped around a cluster of stools. She slid off her jacket, leather stiff from sun and rain, left it draped across a chair. Damp strands of black hair clung to her neck. Her eyes scanned the bar. At the far end, a man stood behind the counter. His hazel eyes locked on her. A flicker of memory burned across his face. Aurora’s breath caught. He froze mid‐pour, then set the bottle down. Each step sounded on worn floorboards as he left the raised platform. He came closer, that faint limp in his left leg as familiar as the silver signet ring on his right hand. She raised her palm. Shoulders tight. He stopped a few feet away. No words. Just the weight of his gaze. Aurora eased onto a stool. Jacket bumping the seat. The bar’s warmth pressed against her back. She pressed her palm to the scar on her left wrist, half‐hidden by her sleeve. He rested an elbow on the counter. Leaned in. You. Her throat narrowed. She nodded once. Could feel time stretch between them. I’ve missed you. He slid a dark glass across the counter. No question in his gesture. Just the offer of something familiar. Aurora traced the rim. Liquor sloshed inside, dark as old regrets. How long has it been? Four years. He tapped the glass twice. The signet ring catching the light. Long enough. She pressed her lips together. Silence dripped thicker than conversation. I heard you left Cardiff. Her gaze flicked to the maps. Wales, England, Europe. He always studied geography like a lover. She rested a finger on the edge of a map marked Prague. He watched her hand. Prague changed you. She tugged at her jacket. Heat pressed on her collarbone. Not as much as Prague changed you. He let the glass slide back. Only half empty. Same as when she’d last spilled secrets into it. You ghosted me. She kept her voice low. Maybe too low. I had reasons. He closed his eyes, as if recalling the moment she vanished. Then opened them. A hard gleam. I thought you were dead. Her throat clenched. The bar’s crowd dimmed to a murmur around them. Wrong. He reached under the counter. Pulled out a battered flask. Set two pours on the bar. To ghosts. She lifted the glass. Metal cold against her palm. He nudged hers. To ghosts. They drank. Heat cut through her in familiar scars. He lingered on her face, memorising lines etched since they’d parted. You look different. She caught her reflection in a mirror behind him. Dark circles under bright blue eyes. Skin pale where she’d stopped sleeping. Life’s kind. He watched her swallow. Spoke around the glass. You weren’t easy to find. She set the glass down. Her fingers trembled against the wood grain. I wasn’t looking to be found. Silas tapped the counter three times. A code older than their first meeting. She knew what it meant. Ready when you are. She nodded. An invitation. Both of them braced for something neither could name. He leaned back. Limping slightly as he shifted weight. Hand tucked into his pocket. So. She inhaled the hush between them. Felt years coil and twist in the air. So. Neither spoke. Music thrummed from hidden speakers. The door rattled as someone entered. Cold air spilled into the room. Silas turned, straightened his apron. Guests at the far end of the bar needed tending. Aurora rose, pulled her jacket back on. She paused, hand on the doorframe. He glanced over his shoulder. The ring on his finger tapped once against the wood. Stay. She met his gaze. No words. Just the echo of what once was. Then she stepped out into the neon night.