Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR9GY4VCC83G09QFDXZQPV

**Aurora's knuckles hesitated inches from the door, the peeling paint an odd juxtaposition to Eva's methodical neatness inside. Three deadbolts. It seemed appropriate. She took a breath, a flood of memories mingling, some warm, most jagged. She knocked. Within moments she heard the faint pad of footsteps and the click of the first deadbolt, then the second. Her heart beat in her throat by the third. The door opened to reveal not Eva but Lucien Moreau, his imposing figure filling the threshold, dressed in one of his meticulously tailored charcoal suits. His heterochromatic eyes glanced at her with the same blend of curiosity and guardedness she'd grown accustomed to. Behind him, the tabby cat Ptolemy peeked out, nonplussed by the unfolding drama. “Aurora,” Lucien's voice smooth yet edged with faint surprise, “come in.” She stepped over the threshold, brushing past him, the subtle scent of amber and spice that clung to him stirring dormant feelings. Ptolemy wound between her legs as if greeting an old friend. The door shut with a final click. “I didn't expect you here,” Lucien continued, closing the door behind her, each word carefully measured. “Clearly,” Aurora replied, glancing around. The flat barely contained the chaos of books, scrolls, and half-finished cups of tea, typical remnants of Eva's nocturnal habits. “Eva at least gave me the courtesy of informing me you were…visiting.” Lucien's lips curved upwards ever so slightly, not quite a smile. “Eva and I have been collaborating on a project. Something of mutual interest. She’s out at the moment.” “Lucky me.” Aurora unshouldered her bag. She hesitated before setting it down, the sturdy canvas sagging onto the cluttered table. She braced herself against its edge, the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist catching the light, a fleeting reminder of simpler wounds. There was a pause, taut and heavy. Finally, Lucien moved, the silver tip of his cane echoing softly on the worn wooden floor. “Would you like some tea?” Aurora chuckled, shaking her head. “Lucien Moreau, playing host. I half-expected hellfire or at least a scotch offer.” “Perhaps later,” he countered, heading towards the narrow kitchen. She watched him disappear, a flash of blond following. Left alone, Aurora scanned the chaos of Eva’s research. Piles of mismatched books teetered precariously, marked with scribbled notes. Her fingers traced a line across a page left open, the ink blurred with hasty underlining. “Egyptian glyphs,” Lucien's voice came again, from the kitchen. He reappeared, holding two steaming mugs. “Eva's latest obsession. Fascinating stuff, really.” Aurora accepted the tea, the warmth countering the chill in her spine. She clung to the mundane act of sipping tea, a tether to normalcy. “I thought you’d left for good this time,” Lucien began, fixing her with his mismatched gaze. “Last I heard, you were adamant about never crossing paths again.” Her throat tightened. “I had my reasons.” “Evan.” The name struck her like a cold wind. She looked away, focused on the dust motes dancing in the streams of sunlight. “It's over. Has been for a while.” He took a step closer, sharp eyes never leaving her face. “But the shadows linger, don't they? It has a way of digging in, sticking around longer than it should.” For a moment, she wanted to lash out, to remind him of his own shadows. The words hung on the edge of her tongue but never found voice. “Why are you really here, Rory?” Lucien used her old nickname, softening the edges of his usual formality. She set the teacup down. “Eva told me she might require help with translating some of her texts. And I wanted to see her.” Her barely spoken excuse felt thin even to her own ears. Lucien didn’t press further. His silence was eloquent, filled with unreadable thoughts. Aurora knew his game, the cat-and-mouse dance they'd perfected across years and countless encounters. “Your scar,” Lucien inclined his head to her wrist. “Still there?” Aurora looked down at the mark on her wrist. It seemed insignificant compared to scars left on her heart. “Funny, isn't it?” she said. “The small cuts heal, but they never quite vanish.” Lucien touched his cane, an unconscious habit whenever conversations turned personal. “We all carry marks, Rory. Some visible, some not.” Aurora moved to the window, Ptolemy darting after her. She looked out over Brick Lane’s bustling, narrow street. Life continued outside, seemingly untouched by the turbulence inside Eva's flat. “The last time we stood this close,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “We made promises neither of us could keep.” Lucien moved behind her; she could feel his presence, like a shadow, close and unwavering. “I remember. You said things... I said things. Heated words, born from pain.” Silence enveloped them, pressing close, wrapping around old wounds. Neither moved, locked in a past neither could change. Then, a soft knock at the door. They turned, eyes meeting briefly before Lucien walked over. He drew back the bolts and opened the door to reveal Eva, her auburn hair tousled, arms encumbered with bags and a large book clutched in one hand. “Rory!” Eva’s face split into a beaming smile as she shuffled past Lucien and enveloped Aurora in a tight hug. “I had hoped you'd come.” Aurora returned the hug, feeling a strange mixture of relief and frustration. “I guess I’m just full of surprises today.” Lucien stepped back, observing as Eva and Aurora exchanged greetings. His aloof facade slipped for a moment, concern flaring in his mismatched eyes. Eva seemed to sense the loaded atmosphere and set her bags down with a decisive thud. “Let me put the kettle back on. We can catch up properly,” Eva said, moving towards the kitchen. “Lucien, maybe help me fetch some more cups?” Lucien followed her, casting one last glance towards Aurora. “Of course, Eva.” When they disappeared into the kitchen, Aurora released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The storm of unspoken words and unresolved feelings swirled around her, more oppressive than the clutter in the room. Ptolemy jumped onto the sofa next to her, purring softly. Aurora scratched behind his ears absently, her mind whirling. She watched the kitchen door, waiting, dreading, and hoping. Today, the past confronted the present. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that, but perhaps, just maybe, some scars needed to be reopened to heal properly. The clatter of teacups in the kitchen marked the lingering pause before the inevitable fallout, the resurgence of long-buried truths, and maybe, a second chance at understanding.