Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRSG2WK0EZTPT93J9Y8D1A

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest pulsed like a slow, steady heartbeat, casting jagged shadows across the wooden bar. Aurora Carter wiped her hands on her apron, the fabric clinging damply to her palms. The Golden Empress delivery van had delivered another rush of takeout, and she stood there, breathing in the sharp scent of garlic and chili, the kind of smell that made her stomach growl even as she tried to ignore it. The bar was nearly empty tonight, just a few regulars hunched over pints, their voices low and familiar. She’d been working late again, another night of balancing shifts and the weight of London’s late-night hunger. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood at the far end of the bar, his usual posture relaxed but alert, the silver signet ring catching the light like a beacon. He didn’t look up at first, but his gaze lingered on the door, as if he’d known she was coming. His limp was still there, a quiet reminder of the past, and his beard was thicker now, the grey streaks in it darker against his skin. He turned then, and his face—once sharp and precise—was lined with something deeper, with years of quiet weariness. “Aurora,” he said, his voice rougher than she remembered, like gravel underfoot. “Long time.” She didn’t move. The scar on her wrist—small, crescent-shaped—pulsed faintly with her heartbeat. She’d forgotten how it felt to be this close to him, how the air between them still carried the ghost of old conversations, half-finished promises. “You look different,” she said, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. Silas exhaled, a slow, measured breath. “So do you.” The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken things. She’d changed too—from the sharp, restless girl who’d fled Cardiff to the one who now worked in a delivery van, her days stretched thin between food and the bar above. The flat above Silas’ bar was hers now, a small space with a bed that smelled of old books and the faintest trace of his cologne when he’d been there before. She’d moved in after Eva had left, after the night Evan had finally snapped. “Eva’s still in Paris,” Silas said, his voice low. “You haven’t heard from her?” Aurora shook her head. “Not since she left.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Silas reached under the bar, his fingers brushing against something metallic before he pulled out a glass bottle of whiskey. He poured two fingers into a glass, handing it to her without a word. She took it, the amber liquid catching the light, and took a sip. It burned, sharp and clean, like the taste of old regrets. “You still work for the Nest?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Silas didn’t answer right away. He set his glass down and leaned back against the bar, his gaze flickering over her face. “I still do,” he said finally. “But not the same way.” Aurora didn’t press. She’d known he’d changed. She’d known he’d retired, that he’d opened the bar as a front, that he’d let the past slip away like smoke. But seeing him like this—older, more tired—made her chest tighten. She’d been the one to leave, to walk away from everything, and now he was the one who’d let go. “You ever think about going back?” she asked, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Silas stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “No.” The word was final, quiet. Aurora didn’t push. She didn’t need to. The unspoken questions hung between them, heavy and unanswered. “You still delivering for Golden Empress?” Silas asked, his voice breaking the silence. Aurora nodded. “Same as always.” Silas studied her for a moment longer, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to her, the weight of it familiar, the ink still legible. It was an address, a name—something she’d written down years ago, before everything had changed. “For you,” he said. Aurora took the paper, her fingers brushing against the ink. She didn’t look at it. “What is it?” Silas didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable. She set the paper down on the bar, the weight of it pressing against her palm. “You’re not going to tell me?” Silas exhaled, a slow, frustrated breath. “No.” The silence returned, heavier than before. Aurora looked around the bar, the dim light casting long shadows across the walls. The old maps and photographs hung there, silent witnesses to a time when they’d been closer, when they’d been something more. “You ever think about what you left behind?” Silas asked, his voice rough. Aurora didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The question hung between them, a weight she’d carried for years. Silas stood, his limp a quiet reminder of the past. “I’ll be closing up,” he said. “You coming?” Aurora didn’t move. She just watched him, the way his shoulders were squared, the way his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary. “Yeah,” she said finally. “I’ll be here.” Silas nodded, his expression unreadable. He turned then, his silhouette fading against the dim light. Aurora watched him go, the weight of the past pressing against her like a physical force. She took another sip of whiskey, the burn sharp and clean, like the taste of old regrets. The bar was quiet now, the hum of the neon sign the only sound. Aurora stood there, her fingers brushing against the paper on the bar, the weight of it pressing against her palm. She didn’t know what it was. She didn’t know what it meant. But she knew, deep down, that it was something she’d have to face. She took a deep breath, the air sharp and clean, like the taste of whiskey. She turned then, her gaze flickering over the maps and photographs on the wall. She was leaving again, just like she always did. But this time, she wasn’t running. She was walking. She walked toward the door, the weight of the past pressing against her like a physical force. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She knew, deep down, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.