Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRM8ZNH3E9RGGAJG0PTBMQ

Aurora pushed open the door. A bell above the frame sang a single note. She stepped inside. Rows of bottles glowed like distant windows in a city that never slept. Neon green light spilled through the front windows, painting the scuffed floorboards with an unearthly hue. She drew in a breath. The faint hiss of condensation. Silence. Silas scrubbed a glass behind the counter. He crooked a glance toward the door, then froze. The glass hovered in his hand. He knelt to rest his weight on that injured knee, then rose, face drawn tight. Beard trimmed. Hair streaked through with grey. Time stilled. She crossed the distance in three long strides. Her hand landed on the bar, fingertips pressing into the worn wood. She let her eyes roam over every bottle, every photograph on the wall—old maps of Europe, a black-and-white snapshot of two friends slung across a motorbike. “How long?” she asked. “Years,” he answered, voice low. She turned her head, searching his face. “Since Cardiff.” He laid the glass down. Limped two steps toward her. “Since Prague,” he corrected. She swallowed. “You were gone by the time I reached London.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your flat above the Nest. I passed by every night. Never saw you.” She let her fingers trail along the edge of the counter. “I stayed hidden.” He set another glass beside the first. “You look different.” She raised her chin. Black hair fell in a straight line to her shoulders. Shoulders squared, posture carved from steel. “Time taught me how.” He examined the small crescent scar at her wrist. Faded but still there. He traced it with a fingertip. “You still carry that?” She closed her hand around her wrist and shrugged. “Old ghost. Doesn’t bite anymore.” He reached under the bar for a clean coaster. Placed it in front of her. “Order?” She glanced at the chalkboard above his head—whiskies, beers, a single cocktail named The Raven’s Shadow. “Whisky. Neat.” He poured amber liquid. The glass sang against the counter as he set it down. She wrapped her fingers around it, watching the light fracture inside. “I never thought you’d open a bar,” she said. He lifted the glass to his lips. Foam kissed his mustache. He wiped it away. “I never thought I’d stop chasing ghosts.” She sipped, eyes still on him. “Ghosts find you anyway.” He settled onto a stool across from her. Wrist brushed ring. “You chased law instead of phantoms.” She let the glass hover under her mouth. “Learned the rules. Found them worse than any ghost.” He nodded, slow. Limp tapped once. “Better a broken rule than a broken spirit.” Silence gathered between them. Then she spoke again. “Why didn’t you come for me?” He looked away, toward the darkened tables. “I tried. Prague went south. My world collapsed.” She closed her eyes. “I had my own collapse. Left Cardiff on nothing but fear.” He met her gaze. “He followed you.” She flinched. “Evan.” “He hurt you,” he said, blunt. She clenched her teeth. “He tried.” He dropped his hand to the counter. “Why’d you stay? Why hide?” She shook her head. “Needed space. Needed to breathe.” He rubbed his beard. “Silence can kill.” Her eyes snapped open. “I know.” They sat in the hum of neon, two figures carved from past mistakes. The maps on the wall seemed to shift under their weight. “I ran deliveries for Golden Empress,” she said. “Better miles than courtrooms.” He smiled, slow. “At least you moved.” She set her glass down, still half-full. “I wanted to disappear.” He nodded. “I wanted to forget.” Her scar glinted under the light. “Too many scars to ignore.” He touched his signet ring, silver gleaming. “That ring meant something once.” She studied it. “An old promise?” He traced the crest. “I wore it in Prague. Should’ve given it to you.” She followed his finger. “Some promises break better than people.” He looked at her without blinking. “You never broke.” She swallowed around a lump. “I bent.” He exhaled. “Bending keeps you alive.” She rose from the stool. Chairs scraped. She walked behind the bar, fingertips grazing bottle labels. “So what now?” He stood, limp carrying him forward. “Now? We sit. We talk. We try again.” She stared at him. The bar’s green glow played across her cheekbones. “I’m not the same girl you knew.” He lifted a brow. “Neither am I.” She turned back to the patronless room. “We lost years.” He joined her, standing close but not touching. “We can’t get them back.” She closed her eyes. “I have regrets.” He whispered, “Me too.” She cracked an eye open. “You think ghosts forgive springing locks, ignoring calls?” He pressed palm to the counter, leaning in. “Some ghosts forgive.” She held his gaze. “Then maybe I’ll stay.” He tipped his head. “Until closing?” She nodded. “Until closing.” He slipped behind the bar. Dug out a battered notebook and placed it before her. “I kept track of you.” She picked it up, weight in her hands. Crack of worn leather. “You charted my life?” He tapped a page. Handwriting looping, years of notes. “Every time I thought you slipped from sight.” She traced a line of dates. “You watched.” He met her eyes. “I waited.” She brushed hair from her face. “Shouldn’t we have met sooner?” He folded arms on the bar. “We met when it mattered.” She opened the notebook to a blank page. “What matters now?” He leaned forward, voice low. “We keep writing.” She closed the book. Whispered, “Together.” He cracked a grin that creased the corners of his eyes. “First round’s on me.” She settled onto the stool again, placing the notebook beside her glass. “Make it a good one.” He reached for a bottle. Poured. The amber liquid caught the neon light and fractured into shards of green and gold. She lifted her glass. He clinked his against hers. Silence. Then she said, “To second chances.” He drank deep. Foam caught his breath. He wiped mouth with the back of his hand. “To old ghosts.” She returned the glass to the bar. “Let’s hope they’re kinder this time.”