Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9X0MSWAEYTJCWGJMAF

The Raven's Nest smelled of aged wood and spilled lager, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes long after you'd left. Rory pushed through the door, letting it swing shut behind her as she shook rain from her jacket. Her trainers squelched against the sticky floor. She'd come for a quiet pint, nothing more. The Golden Empress had been slammed with Friday night orders, and her legs ached from running up and down tower block stairwells. All she wanted was one drink and maybe a word with Silas before trudging upstairs to her flat. The bar was half-empty. A couple occupied the corner booth, heads bent together in whispered conversation. An old man nursed something amber at the counter. And there, sitting alone at a table near the photographs of Prague and Berlin, was Eva. Rory's chest tightened. She hadn't seen Eva in three years. Not since the hurried move to London, the frantic phone calls, the promises of staying close that had dissolved like sugar in rain. Eva looked up. Their eyes met. For a moment, neither moved. Then Eva stood, and Rory saw how much had changed. The wild auburn curls Eva had always refused to tame were gone, replaced by a sleek blonde bob that ended just below her chin. She wore a charcoal suit jacket over a silk blouse, tailored and expensive. Nothing like the ripped band tees and charity shop jeans she'd lived in back in Cardiff. "Christ." Eva's voice was softer than Rory remembered. "Rory?" "Eva." They stood there, separated by six tables and what felt like a lifetime. Silas emerged from behind the bar, took one look at them both, and disappeared into the back room without a word. "I didn't know you lived here." Eva gestured at the bar around them. "I mean, in Soho. I'm just—I'm in town for work." "Upstairs." Rory jerked her thumb toward the ceiling. "Above the bar." "Right. Of course." Silence stretched between them like old elastic, brittle and ready to snap. "You look good," Eva said finally. "Really good." "You look different." Eva's hand went to her hair, an old nervous habit that somehow survived whatever transformation she'd undergone. "Yeah. New job required a new look, apparently." "What job?" "Corporate law. Mergers and acquisitions." Eva sat back down, and Rory found herself moving forward, taking the chair opposite. "I'm at a firm in Manchester. Good money. Partnership track." Rory thought of her own existence—delivering chow mein in the rain, living in a flat small enough that she could touch both walls with her arms spread wide. "That's brilliant." "Is it?" Eva's mouth twisted. "Your dad must be thrilled at least. You went to law school after all?" "No." The word came out harder than intended. "I didn't." Eva blinked. "But you were going to—" "I deliver Chinese food." "Oh." The weight of that single syllable pressed down on the table between them. Rory saw Eva's eyes flick over her—the worn jacket, the grease stain on her jeans, the calluses on her hands from bicycle handlebars. "I didn't mean—" Eva started. "It's fine." "No, really, I just thought—" "You thought I'd become my father." Rory leaned back, crossed her arms. "Barrister robes and court dates and all that bollocks." "You were good at it. At arguing, I mean. You always won every debate." "Winning arguments doesn't mean you should be a lawyer." Eva's fingers traced patterns on the table, circling a water ring left by someone else's glass. "You called me. Three years ago. Middle of the night. You said you needed to get away from Cardiff, that things with Evan had gotten bad. I told you to come to London, that I'd help you find a place." "I remember." "I waited for you at King's Cross. Stood there for two hours." Eva's voice stayed level, but something underneath it cracked like river ice. "You texted me three days later saying you'd sorted it. That you didn't need help." "I didn't want to be a burden." "We were friends, Rory. Best friends. That's what friends do." Were. Past tense. Rory heard it land between them. "You stopped replying to my texts," Rory said. "After a while." "Because you'd send back one-word answers. 'Fine.' 'Busy.' 'Later.'" Eva's silk blouse shifted as she leaned forward. "What was I supposed to do with that?" The couple in the corner stood to leave, their chairs scraping against the floor. The old man at the bar called for another whisky. Silas reappeared long enough to pour it, his eyes flicking toward Rory with a question she couldn't answer. "You look tired," Eva said, softer now. "I am tired." "Are you happy?" The question hung there, impossible to answer truthfully. Rory thought about her delivery route, the way the city looked from her bicycle seat, the quiet of her flat when she came home. The absence of Evan's voice telling her she was stupid, worthless, embarrassing. The presence of Silas downstairs, steady and solid. The bizarre sort of peace she'd found in simplicity. "I'm not unhappy." "That's not the same thing." "No." Rory met Eva's eyes. "It's not." Eva's hand moved across the table, stopped halfway, retreated. "I should have tried harder. To keep in touch." "I should have let you." "Why didn't you?" Because you'd have seen the bruises. Because you'd have asked questions I didn't want to answer. Because I was ashamed and scared and couldn't bear the thought of you knowing how small I'd let myself become. "I don't know," Rory said instead. The lie settled between them like dust. Eva checked her watch—sleek, silver, probably worth more than Rory's bicycle. "I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should—" "Yeah." They stood. Eva gathered her handbag, leather and pristine. Rory shoved her hands in her pockets. "It was good to see you," Eva said. "Really." "You too." Eva walked toward the door, heels clicking against the floorboards. She paused with her hand on the handle, turned back. The green neon from the sign outside caught her face, painting her in shades of someone Rory used to know. "I'm here until Sunday. At the Savoy." Eva pulled out a business card, set it on the table nearest the door. "If you want to talk properly. Or even just—I don't know. Coffee." Rory looked at the card, at Eva's name printed in raised letters beneath a law firm's logo. "Okay." Eva nodded once and stepped into the rain. The door swung shut. Silas materialized at Rory's elbow, a pint glass in his hand. "On the house," he said. Rory took it, drank half in one go. The beer tasted bitter and familiar. "Old friend?" Silas asked. "Something like that." She didn't pick up the business card before heading upstairs. But she didn't throw it away either.