Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR2G26NV9EXAPWWZ3JSHMV

The jukebox in the corner of The Raven's Nest played a low, soulful tune that Rory didn't recognize. She leaned against the polished mahogany bar, watching Silas wipe down glassware with a precise rhythm. The green neon sign outside cast an eerie glow through the front window, painting the old maps on the walls in shadowy relief. The bell above the door jingled. Rory glanced over, more out of habit than interest. The man who entered wore a dark overcoat damp with evening mist. He removed his hat, revealing silver at his temples and lines around eyes that still held a familiar spark. Recognition struck her like a physical blow. "Laila?" The childhood nickname—her mother's choice, abandoned when she turned fourteen—sounded foreign in his mouth. She hadn't heard it in years. Silas paused his wiping, his gaze shifting between them. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod and returned to his work, giving them the illusion of privacy. "Oliver." The name tasted strange. She hadn't spoken it aloud since university. "I thought you were in Geneva." "Transferred back last month." He approached the bar slowly, as if navigating a minefield. "May I?" She gestured to the stool beside her. He settled onto it, the leather creaking under his weight. Up close, the changes became more pronounced. The boyish roundness had vanished from his face, replaced by sharp angles and a tightness around his mouth. His hands, once stained with ink from late-night essay writing, now bore the calluses of something rougher. "You look... different," he said. "So do you." A silence stretched between them, filled by the jukebox's melancholy and the distant hum of London traffic. "Whiskey," Oliver told Silas. "Neat." "The usual, Rory?" Silas asked. "Please." Silas poured two glasses, set them down without comment, and retreated to the other end of the bar. Oliver lifted his glass, studying the amber liquid. "I heard about Evan." Rory's fingers tightened around her own glass. The cool surface grounded her. "That was three years ago." "Still." He took a sip, his gaze fixed on the shelves behind the bar. "I should have checked on you." "You were in Geneva." "That's not an excuse." The admission hung in the air, heavy and unadorned. Rory remembered their last conversation—a heated argument in a student union common room, Oliver insisting she come with him to his new job overseas, she refusing to abandon her law studies. Neither had known it would be the final time they'd speak as friends. "What are you doing these days?" Oliver asked, turning toward her. His eyes searched her face, looking for the girl he'd known. "Delivery work. Part-time." "For a law firm?" "A Chinese restaurant." His eyebrows lifted. "You were top of our class." "I was." She took a long drink, letting the whiskey burn away the bitterness. "Turns out liking to argue doesn't mean you want to spend your life doing it for money." "And Evan?" "Gone." "Good." Another silence. Oliver swirled his whiskey, watching the liquid climb the sides of the glass. "I got married." Rory felt a strange detachment, as if observing the conversation from across the room. "Congratulations." "It didn't last. Two years." He chuckled without humor. "She said I'd become a stranger. That I brought my work home with me." "What work is that?" He met her eyes. "Diplomatic security." The pieces clicked into place—the calluses, the new sharpness, the weariness in his shoulders. Rory remembered the boy who'd wanted to join the Foreign Office, who'd dreamed of embassies and state dinners. This man before her carried the weight of darker realities. "You always did want to serve," she said softly. "Did I?" He drained his glass. "Sometimes I can't remember what I wanted. Only what I became." The confession felt like a door cracking open. Rory studied him—the slight tremor in his right hand, the way his eyes kept scanning the room even in this safe, dimly lit bar. She saw the ghost of the boy who'd written terrible poetry and laughed until he cried at bad movies. "I go by Rory now," she said. "Not Laila." "Rory." He tested the name. "Suits you better." "I think so." Silas appeared and refilled Oliver's glass without being asked. His hazel eyes met Rory's briefly, a silent question. She gave a slight shake of her head. "I'm sorry," Oliver said suddenly. "For what?" "For not being there. For letting..." He gestured vaguely. "All of this happen." "You didn't 'let' anything happen. Life happened." "Life." He repeated the word as if it were a curse. "That's what they call it when you wake up one day and don't recognize yourself in the mirror." Rory thought of her own reflection that morning—the tired eyes, the hair she hadn't bothered to style, the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist that seemed to have faded with time. She wondered what Oliver saw when he looked at his reflection. Whether he saw the ghost she saw. "Do you ever miss it?" he asked. "University? All those late nights arguing about nothing?" "I miss who I was then. Not what we were doing." "Who were you?" She considered. "Someone who believed things could be fixed." "And now?" "Now I know some things stay broken." She traced the rim of her glass with her thumb. "But you pick up the pieces and build something new." Oliver stared at her, his expression unreadable. "You were always smarter than me." "Not smarter. Just more honest." He laughed, a genuine sound that transformed his face momentarily back into the boy she'd known. "God, I've missed you." The admission surprised them both. Rory felt something loosen in her chest, a tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying. "I've missed you too," she whispered. They sat in silence for a long moment, the space between them filled with years of absence and change. The jukebox song ended, leaving only the whisper of rain against the window and the soft clink of glass from Silas' work. "I should go," Oliver said, though he made no move to stand. "My flat's upstairs." He looked at her, his eyes asking a question words couldn't form. "Just for a drink," she clarified. "No expectations." Oliver nodded slowly. He pulled a few notes from his wallet and left them on the bar. Silas raised a hand in farewell as they stood. The rain had eased to a fine mist that clung to their coats as they stepped outside. Oliver paused beneath the green neon sign, his face painted in its otherworldly glow. "Rory?" "Yes?" "Thank you." She didn't ask for what. She simply took his arm, steering him toward the side entrance that led to her flat above the bar. The night air smelled of wet pavement and distant diesel, of London and memory and time's relentless forward march.