Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR3RWXQ7FBEARZ75E8E5SC

The Raven's Nest bustled with the usual hum of evening life—clinking glasses, muffled conversations, and the soft strain of jazz leaking from hidden speakers. The distinctive green neon sign outside sliced through Soho's nighttime fog like an emerald beacon. Rory, having just finished another round of deliveries, stepped into the cozy haven of Silas' bar. Her eyes flicked to the corner where a worn bookshelf disguised the entrance to the hidden room, a tiny smirk crossing her lips. She headed to the bar, her steps light but tired. A hulking figure loomed over the polished oak counter, Silas' large frame leaning into his task of cleaning a glass with a white rag. His movements were slow, deliberate, like the hands of a well-wound clock. "Evening, Si," Rory greeted. She slid onto a stool and shrugged off her jacket, exposing the small crescent scar on her left wrist. Silas looked up, his eye catching the glint of his silver signet ring. "Rory," he nodded, a slight limp evident as he shifted to face her more directly. "The usual?" Without waiting for a response, he reached under the counter. She hesitated just a moment. "Sure," she relented, her smile tired but genuine. As Silas fixed her drink, Rory glanced around the bar. It wasn't crowded tonight. A young couple occupied a booth, their heads bowed close in conspiratorial whispers. An older man at the far end seemed lost in thoughts, staring into the amber liquid of his glass as if it held the secrets to his regrets. Rory's eyes finally settled on a figure seated alone at one of the small round tables near a window, his back to her. When Silas set a glass of whiskey in front of her, she sipped appreciatively and settled into the comfort of the place, her sanctuary. Just then, the lone figure in the corner shifted, the subtle motion catching Rory's eye again. The man turned slightly, and in an instant, recognition hit her like an icy wave crashing to shore. "Evan?" The name escaped her lips before she could think to hold it back. The weight of a thousand nights spent running from memories suddenly bore down on her. The man turned fully now, his eyes meeting hers. It was him, undoubtedly. But everything about his presence seemed altered. His once youthful face was etched with hard lines, and his eyes, those eyes she'd once thought were filled with warmth, now harbored a cold, distant shadow. He managed a smile—a ghostly echo of the charm it once held. "Rory," he said simply, rising from his seat. He walked over, each step filled with hesitation, as if the space between them was bridged by fragile glass. "It's been a while." "It has," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. "I didn't expect to see you here." He shrugged, the gesture awkward. "Got into town a few days ago. Thought I'd explore old haunts." He glanced around the bar, then back to her. "Didn't expect to run into you either." Silas watched the interaction from the corner of his eye, but continued his duties, aware of the disquieting current now weaving through the room. Rory gestured to the empty seat beside her. "Join me?" "Sure," he said, settling onto the stool, his movements still carrying that old, familiar confidence despite the undercurrent of change. There was a moment's silence, heavy with the history between them. Rory traced the rim of her glass with a slender finger, resisting the urge to unsheathe the emotional armor she'd worn ever since leaving. "So," she began, her eyes now steady on his, "what brings you back?" Evan cleared his throat. "Work mostly. Got a consulting gig in the city. Thought I'd revisit some places." His voice trailed off, as if the words carried more weight than he intended to reveal. Rory arched an eyebrow. "Consulting, huh? Quite the change from when I last knew you." A faint smile touched his lips. "Quite the change in a lot of things," he admitted. He let the statement hang in the air for a moment before he continued. "And you? How have you been?" "Managing," she said, glancing toward Silas who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. "Working part-time, keeping busy. Life in London is... different." Evan's gaze fell to her wrist, catching the familiar crescent scar. "I used to worry about you," he confessed, his voice low. "Wondered if you were doing okay." "I'm fine," Rory replied quickly, too quickly. She looked away, a twinge of old pain pressing against her chest. "I had to be." "Yeah," Evan murmured, more to himself than to her. "I get that." His eyes drifted over the bar's decor—a collage of yesterdays memorialized in faded maps and black-and-white photographs—and for a second, he seemed far away. The silence between them thickened, not uncomfortable but dense with unspoken tales. Evan finally broke it. "I've changed, Rory," he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers with an honesty she hadn't seen before. "I had to." She nodded slowly, finding the brittleness in her own voice. "We both did." He reached for her hand, his grip gentle but firm. "I'm sorry," he said, the words poignant in their simplicity, carrying a weight that no apology could truly relieve. Rory looked at their joined hands, then up into his eyes. "So am I," she whispered. They sat there, the hum of the bar a distant murmur, allowing the shared silence to mend the frayed edges of their past. It was a beginning, not of something new, but of understanding, a fragile bridge built on the ashes of what once was. Time had passed, irrevocably changing both their paths. But in the small, dimly lit corner of The Raven's Nest, the weight of unspoken regrets found a voice, and for a fleeting moment, the distance between who they were and who they'd become seemed a little less vast.