Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR2BN5BC91KGSDM7GH6809

She stepped inside. A chipped green neon sign cast fractured emerald across her coat. Chairs, polished smooth by elbows and time, hugged the walls. The air smelled of spilled whisky and damp maps framed in cracked wood. One map showed Prague, its borders folded and frayed. Black-and-white photographs lined the walls: figures in trench coats, faces lit by streetlamps. She froze. He knelt behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with slow precision. Grey-streaked auburn hair fell over his forehead. A neat beard masked most of his jaw. His left leg held a faint hitch. “Aurora?” Her breath snagged. “Silas.” He tucked the glasscloth into his sleeve. Hazel eyes held hers for a calculated moment. A silver signet ring gleamed on his right hand. “Didn’t expect to find you here,” he said, voice low. She drifted closer, boots tapping the wood. “Neither did I.” He straightened, shifting weight off the injured leg. “Been some time.” She pressed a palm to the bar, revealing the crescent scar on her left wrist. “Seven years?” He traced the scar with his thumb. “Six.” His thumb lingered on the mark she’d carried since she’d been eight. She slid her hand away. “You remember.” “I never forgot.” He set the tumbler down and reached under the bar, surfacing with a dusty bottle. “Drink?” She hesitated. He uncorked it. The pop cracked the hush. Amber liquid filled two glasses. “One for the roads we missed,” he murmured. She lifted her glass. “And the bridges we burned.” They drank in silence. Music from a battered jukebox thrummed beneath it all. She felt the wood’s grain under her fingertips, each ridge a year lost. He slid a photograph across. Two silhouettes on Charles Bridge. Her hair was longer then, wind tousling it across her face. He stood beside her, trench coat soaked. “When did you take this?” she asked. “Night before Prague.” He tapped the photo. “You’d just started at Cardiff.” She let her gaze drift to the map overhead. “You left a week later.” He closed his eyes. “I thought I’d come back.” She swallowed, voice low. “I was angry you didn’t.” He opened his eyes. “I thought you’d hate me for it.” She turned the glass, thumb and forefinger grazing the rim. “I hated you for not writing.” He laid the photo beside the ledger he’d slid out moments earlier. “I wrote. You never answered.” Her chest tightened. “I didn’t know what to say.” He studied her. “You needed distance.” She blinked against the bar’s dim light. “I ran toward freedom. Actually, I ran from him.” He set his jaw. “I heard.” She reached inside her coat and pulled out a crumpled receipt from Golden Empress. “Day job keeps me moving.” He eyed the slip. “Still dodging stakes and flash floods?” She let a dry laugh escape. “Spare me the review.” He leaned forward, tapping his signet ring. “You’ve always outrun my worst questions.” She met his gaze. Bright blue eyes steady. “You’ve always found a way to catch up.” He straightened, tossing a cube of ice into each glass. “So. Here we are.” She exhaled a thread of air. “You still limping?” He flexed the uninjured leg. “Old Prague wound.” She touched her scar. “Old Cardiff scar.” He regarded her carefully. “You want to talk about it?” She dragged her gaze away. “Not tonight.” He set the glasses before her. “Fair enough.” A pause stretched. She let the glass cool her fingers. He gestured at the walls. “Maps, photos. This place still smells of missions.” She traced a crack in the bar. “Safe houses. Ghosts.” He tapped the board behind his head. “Hidden room through that shelf.” She pictured the secret door. “You never take me there.” He shrugged, limp and all. “Not necessary.” She stood straighter, as if gathering a shield. “You could have called.” He leaned on both hands, old scars on his knuckles. “You could have come looking.” She lifted her chin. “I didn’t know where to start.” He studied the ring again, its crest worn nearly smooth. “Some promises die harder than others.” She traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip. “I carried mine like ballast.” He met her eyes. “You’re still afloat.” She bit her lip. “Barely.” He lifted his glass. “To staying afloat.” She clinked hers against his. The glass rang clear. He set it down. “I was sorry about Evan.” Her throat clenched. “He left bruises I still feel.” He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist. “You deserved better.” She looked at where their skin nearly met. “I deserved someone who’d stay.” He nodded. “I should’ve stayed in Cardiff.” She tilted her head. “I should’ve let you.” He rested both hands on the bar. “Maybe it’s still not too late.” She held his gaze, searching the corners of his eyes. “Maybe.” He swallowed. “Regret’s a cold bed.” She traced her scar again. “Made me restless.” He flexed the ring. “Made me restless too.” She brushed hair behind her ear, revealing lines of muscle along her jaw. “What do we do now?” He stared at the maps above him. “We start with the next step.” She pushed her glass toward him. “Pour another.” He lifted the bottle. “To new steps.” She watched the liquid pour, golden and warm, like a promise neither dared voice. He raised the fresh drink. “To time wasted.” She met his glass halfway. “Time to reclaim.” They drank again, silence laced with something heavier than whisky. Across the bar, the green sign flickered, lighting their faces, their scars, the years they’d carried apart. Neither stepped forward. Neither pulled back. They simply sat, two figures wound tight with memories and regrets, perched on opposite ends of a counter that held every chance they’d missed—and every one still waiting.