Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX28WCXPKTJWK36JD03G5K

The green neon sign buzzed overhead, a low, electric hum that barely registered over the drum of heavy rain against the Soho pavement. Rory shook her umbrella, sending a spray of cold water across the pavement before stepping inside The Raven's Nest. The air inside smelled of stale tobacco, lemon polish, and the sharp, metallic tang of gin. She hadn't intended to stop here. The flat above was empty, and the silence up there was getting louder by the day. She needed noise. She needed a crowd, even if it was just the sad scatter of regulars hunched over their pints on a Tuesday night. Rory slipped onto a stool at the far end of the mahogany bar. The wood was cool under her elbows. She unzipped her fleece, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist catching the light as she pushed her sleeve up. The skin around it still pulled tight when she flexed her hand, a permanent reminder of a window latch that had refused to give. "Whisky. Single. No ice." She didn't look up. She stared at the rows of inverted bottles lining the shelves behind the bar, watching the distorted reflection of the room. "Coming up." The voice was deep, gravel-edged, and stopped her cold. It vibrated in her chest, pulling a memory from the archives of her childhood—card games in her father’s study, the scent of expensive cigars, and a man who laughed like thunder. Rory’s head snapped up. The man placing a coaster on the bar wasn't the young, vibrant operative she remembered from the Cardiff embassy parties years ago. His hair, once a vivid auburn, was now streaked with heavy grey, tied back in a loose queue that did little to hide the lines etched deep around his mouth and eyes. He moved with a deliberation that bordered on painful, favouring his left leg as he turned to grab a bottle of Glenfiddich. He turned back, the amber liquid splashing into the heavy bottomed glass. His hazel eyes met hers, and the movement froze. His hand hovered over the bottle, a silver signet ring catching the dim light. "Aurora?" The name landed like a stone in a still pond. It belonged to a different girl, a girl who wore blazers and debated precedent, a girl who hadn't learned to sleep with a knife under her pillow. Rory cleared her throat, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. "It's Rory now." Silas set the bottle down on the counter with a heavy thud. He leaned forward, planting both hands on the wood. The silver ring glinted. He looked older. Harder. The sharp intelligence in his eyes had calcified into something wary, assessing threats that weren't there. "Rory." He tested the sound, rolling the single syllable around his mouth like a pebble. "It's been a long time. Six years? Seven?" "Seven." "Your father mentioned you moved to London. Pre-Law, wasn't it?" "I dropped out." Rory picked up the glass, the liquid trembling slightly. "Life got in the way." Silas nodded slowly. He pulled a rag from his apron pocket and began to wipe a spot on the counter that was already clean. "Life has a habit of doing that. Prague taught me that." He gestured vaguely toward his knee. Rory hadn't noticed it at first, the way he kept his weight shifted, but now the limp was obvious. A permanent souvenir from a botched operation, her father had whispered once at a dinner party, the night before Silas vanished from the social circuit entirely. "You opened a bar." "Needed something to do with my hands." He stopped wiping and looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze traced the dark circles under her eyes, the too-sharp angle of her jawline, the defensive set of her shoulders. "You look tired, Rory." "I deliver food for a living now. It’s tiring work." "That’s not what I meant." The silence stretched, taut and uncomfortable. The ambient noise of the bar—the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation from a booth in the corner—seemed to fade into the background. Rory took a drink, the whisky burning a path down her throat, settling warm in her stomach. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Si." "Maybe I have." He poured himself a measure of water, no ice, and leaned his hip against the register. "The last time I saw you, you were arguing about the ethics of corporate law at a garden party. You had fire in your eyes. Now..." "Now what?" "Now you look like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop." Rory swirled the remaining whisky in her glass. She pulled her sleeve down, covering the scar on her wrist. "People change, Silas. We get older. We get bruised." "Some bruises don't come from the outside." She didn't respond. She couldn't. To speak about Evan would be to let him win, to give oxygen to the fear that had driven her out of Cardiff and into this dim, anonymous city. She had run to London on Eva’s advice, seeking a fresh start, but she had just swapped one cage for another, albeit one with an open door. Silas tapped the silver ring against the counter. *Click. Click. Click.* "I remember when you were twelve," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You climbed that massive oak in your garden because you wanted to see if you could spot the coast. You fell ten feet. Broke your arm. Didn't cry a single tear until your mother saw the blood." "I was stupid." "You were brave. There's a difference." "Bravery gets you hurt. Caution keeps you alive." Silas studied her face, his expression unreadable. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers for a fraction of a second before he pulled it back. The air between them crackled with the weight of the unsaid—the years of silence, the secrets they were both keeping, the realization that the people they remembered no longer existed. "So, delivery girl," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile. "Do you deliver to local businesses?" "Depends on the order." "I have a request." He gestured toward the back of the bar, where a wall of old maps covered the passageway to the toilets. Or so it seemed. Rory knew a blind spot when she saw one. "Stay away from the bookshelf in the back room. It bites." "Noted." "And Rory?" She looked up, meeting his gaze. The hazel eyes were soft now, filled with a quiet regret that mirrored her own. "If you need a place that doesn't ask questions... you know where I am." "I live upstairs, Si. I think the questions already started." He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Fair point. But the offer stands. You're not the only one hiding from the past." Rory finished her drink and slid the glass across the wood. The warmth had spread to her fingers, chasing away the chill of the rain. She stood up, zipping her fleece against the draft of the door opening behind her. "I'll keep that in mind." She turned to leave, the weight of his eyes on her back. She stopped at the doorway, her hand on the frame. "You should fix that sign," she said without turning around. "The buzz is annoying." "It keeps the rats away," he replied, his voice already fading as he moved to serve another customer. Rory stepped out into the London rain. The neon green sign flickered above her, casting a sickly glow on the wet pavement. She looked up at the dark windows of the flat above, then back at the opaque glass of the bar door. For the first time in seven years, the silence waiting for her upstairs didn't feel quite so heavy.