Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR8G2FA0GZ5WS76EDDJD5R

The Raven’s Nest exuded an aura of mystery that was nearly tangible, its green neon sign flickering through the drizzling rain like a beacon calling to lost souls. Rory pushed open the heavy wooden door, the comforting aroma of aged scotch and wood polish welcoming her into the dim warmth of the bar. Her deliveries had taken less time today, and she welcomed the extra hours to unwind before the city's night clamour intruded upon her solitude. The bar pulsed with muted life, patrons hunched over their drinks, murmuring in hushed tones. Silas stood behind the counter, his silver signet ring gleaming momentarily as he reached for a bottle, pouring whiskey into a glass with the kind of deliberation only he possessed—a calm presence, unflustered under the weight of years. He glanced up, a slight smile breaking the stoic mask he usually wore. “Rory. You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on those shoulders,” Silas said, nodding towards an empty stool at the bar. “It’s just Cardiff calling back,” Rory replied, settling onto the stool. She ran a hand through her hair, pushing loose strands behind her ears in a practiced motion. “Funny how homesickness sneaks up when you least expect it.” “It’s inescapable, even for you.” Silas picked up his glass. “Would you care for a drink on the house? Something light, yes?” “Sure, but make it strong, please. Light can wait.” Rory’s smile was lopsided, edged with an exhaustion only discernible to those who knew her well. Silas chuckled and obliged with a glass of scotch. The evening trickled past with barstool chatter, Rory and Silas exchanging anecdotes of improbable days past. Silas regaled her with tales of operatives and dubious prospects from his MI6 days, painting them like old capers that seemed much lighter from afar. Rory listened, her bright blue eyes softening in shared nostalgia, her own tales peppering their conversation with a cocktail of Cardiff memories and London escapades. As the clink of glasses and murmured voices formed a soothing backdrop, the door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air. Rory paused mid-sentence, her gaze falling on a figure who seemed ghostly on the threshold. The rain-drenched trench coat was familiar. Recognition flickered across her features, surprise etched an invisible line across her forehead. “Evan?” The name slipped out, unbidden, charged with emotion that twisted her gut. The man paused in his stride, turning to face the now still patrons and the array of emotions directed his way. He looked... altered. The years had reshaped his features, mellowing harsh angles and dimming the fire that once burned in his eyes. Time had left its mark on him, as it had on Rory, yet something else lingered—an air of admission, perhaps resignation. “Rory. Didn’t expect to find you here.” Evan's voice carried a hint of disbelief, deepened with regret edges, yet tinged with relief at seeing a familiar face amidst strangers. “I could say the same about you, Evan. It’s been... four, no five years?” She glanced at Silas, who had withdrawn elegantly into the shadows behind the bar. “Yeah, a lifetime, it feels like. May I?” Evan gestured towards the stool beside her. Rory nodded, a silent affirmation. He dropped onto the stool, shedding the coat to reveal a buttoned shirt—neat, if slightly rumpled after a day’s wear. Silas hovered, his attentiveness never intrusive, procuring Evan’s drink in much the same way he did for every patron—a rhythm of precision. “Been a while since Cardiff. You still in touch with anyone?” Rory ventured, grasping the glass of scotch as if anchoring herself amid the swirl of recollection. “Every now and then. The place hasn’t changed much, but I needed a fresh start after...” Evan gestured vaguely, leaving unfinished sentences hanging between them like cobwebs. “Same. London was pretty much my reset button, too. New faces, new haunts.” Rory chuckled, a wry attempt to lighten the loaded air. Evan glanced down at her wrist, noting the crescent scar, a remnant of bygone days. His eyes lingered as if translating the scar into stories only Rory knew in their entirety. “You’re... different. Somehow even more resilient than I remember,” he observed, his tone soft yet inquiring. “Life demands it, doesn’t it? We adapt, grow tough from the roots up.” Evan nodded, absorbing the truth in her words. “I should’ve learnt that sooner. Took me a while to grow out of... well, you know.” Rory sighed, the past threading through her thoughts, intricate and tangled. “The years change you, show who really matters, what doesn’t survive the purges of memory.” Evan’s eyes met hers, holding a mix of admiration and the kind of regret that purges unholy timeliness—not rushed, yet undeniable. “I regret. A lot. You deserved more than what I was then.” Rory shrugged gently, a graceful acceptance that was hard-wrought through time. “Evan, every story’s two-sided. I’ve learnt peace in it, kept it simple—my own clarity.” “Peace... That’s good to hear, Rory.” Their conversation flowed, weaving tales of the intervening years without the weight of blame, nor heavy shackles of unforgiveness. Silas, ever-present in the comfort offered by The Raven’s Nest, occasionally chimed in, relaying stories with equal finesse, his hazel eyes sweeping across his realm like an old sage. Rory and Evan watched him, thankful for his unobtrusive company and quiet acts of camaraderie; a silent support that remained steadfast over the years. As London draped its veil of evening onto the city, The Raven’s Nest maintained its intimacy—a timeless, weathered arc grounding its patrons against the distant hum of a world outside. Rory and Evan leaned toward this semblance of occasional truce, bridging gaps and healing scars with words grounded in resignation, forgiveness, and acceptance that twined like gentle vines through their history. Though the world kept moving, inside the Nest, the moment was still—a reverie amid the spin of time. Together, Rory and Evan lingered, basking in the essence of renewed connections. Here, amidst maps and photographs yellowing from ages past, they unlocked histories buried within themselves, reflecting on the nuances of change and choices made.