Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR47JQN11TAATBZKFHRCTP

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter. The air smelled of aged whiskey and lemon polish, the kind of scent that clung to the walls like a second skin. Rory leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty gin and tonic. The ice had long since melted, watering down the sharpness of the juniper. The door creaked open, letting in a draft that carried the scent of rain and wet pavement. A man stepped inside, shaking droplets from his coat. He moved with the careful precision of someone who’d learned to compensate for an old injury, his left leg carrying just a hint of stiffness. His auburn hair, streaked with silver, caught the dim light as he scanned the room. Rory didn’t look up at first. She was too busy staring at the condensation ring her glass had left on the bar, the way it blurred the grain of the wood beneath. Then she heard it—the familiar rasp of his voice, lower than she remembered, rougher. "Still drinking that watered-down swill, I see." Her head snapped up. Silas stood there, his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, the same way they always had when he was amused. But there was something else in them now—something heavier. The years had carved lines into his face that hadn’t been there before, and his beard, once a dark auburn, was now liberally threaded with grey. Rory’s breath hitched. "Silas." He didn’t smile, not really. Just a slight tilt of the mouth, like he was testing the expression to see if it still fit. "Been a while, Rory." She swallowed. "Yeah. A while." He slid onto the stool beside her, his signet ring catching the light as he rested his hands on the bar. The silver glinted, cold and unyielding. "You look different." Rory laughed, but it came out sharp, brittle. "Do I?" Silas didn’t answer right away. He flagged down the bartender, ordered a whiskey neat, then turned back to her. "You used to have that look—like you were always three steps ahead of everyone else. Now you just look tired." She flinched. "Thanks." "Wasn’t a compliment." He took a sip of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed. "What happened to you?" Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. "Life, I guess." Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so hollow. "That’s not an answer." "No," she said, "it’s not." The bartender slid Silas’s drink toward him, and for a moment, the only sound was the ice shifting in Rory’s glass. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, like he was trying to peel back the layers of the last few years with just his eyes. "You left," he said finally. "No warning. No note. Just gone." Rory’s jaw clenched. "I had to." "Why?" She didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Silas didn’t push. He just sat there, watching her, waiting. Rory traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, the one she’d gotten falling off her bike when she was eight. It was a habit she’d picked up when she was lying, though she wasn’t sure if she was lying now or if she just didn’t know the truth herself. "I thought you’d be proud of me," she said quietly. "I did what you always said I should. I got out. I made my own way." Silas’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. "And is that what you wanted?" Rory’s chest ached. "I don’t know anymore." He leaned back, his stool creaking under his weight. "You used to know. You used to have this fire in you—like nothing could touch you. Now you’re just… surviving." She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she was fine, that she’d built a life here, that she had a job, a flat, a routine. But the words died in her throat. Silas sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. "I kept the place running. Thought maybe you’d come back. Even left your old room just how you left it." Rory’s breath caught. "You didn’t have to do that." "I know." He took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I did." She looked away, her gaze landing on the old maps tacked to the wall, the black-and-white photographs of faces she didn’t recognize. "I didn’t think you’d still be here." Silas chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound. "Where else would I be?" Rory didn’t have an answer for that. She picked up her glass, drained the last of her drink, and set it down with a sharp *clink*. "I should go." Silas didn’t stop her. He just nodded, like he’d expected it. "Always running, aren’t you?" She stood, her stool scraping against the floor. "It’s not running if you’re not looking back." He didn’t turn to watch her leave. Just lifted his glass in a silent toast. "See you around, Rory." She hesitated for just a second, her fingers brushing the edge of the bar. Then she walked away, the door swinging shut behind her with a finality that echoed in the hollow space between them.