Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXANQPS6DFDN6K5GJFERV8

The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest cast a sickly glow over the wet pavement. Rory pulled her delivery scooter to a stop, the engine's rumble dying into silence. She yanked the helmet from her head, her black hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. Another late shift done. Another stack of tips in her pocket, barely enough to cover rent and her father's occasional calls asking when she'd return to Cardiff. The door to the bar swung open, releasing a wave of warmth and the low murmur of conversation. The familiar scent of aged wood, polished brass, and something else—something like old paper and secrets—wrapped around her. This was her second home now, more than the tiny flat above ever had been. She slid onto her usual stool at the end of the bar, the leather cool against her tired legs. Silas moved toward her without a word, his slight limp barely noticeable as he navigated the narrow space behind the bar. He placed a glass of water in front of her, ice cubes clinking against the sides. "Rough night?" "The usual. Drunken students in Kensington who can't find their own front door." She ran a hand through her hair. "How's business?" "Quiet. Just the way I like it." His hazel eyes scanned the room, a habit she'd noticed early on. The man never truly relaxed, not completely. "There's someone asking about you." Rory stiffened. "Who?" "Wouldn't give his name. Said you'd know him. Sitting in the corner booth." Silas gestured with his chin toward the darkest part of the bar, where the shadows pooled thick between the old maps and black-and-white photographs covering the walls. Rory turned, squinting. A figure sat alone, half-hidden in the gloom. As her eyes adjusted, recognition hit her like a physical blow. No. It couldn't be. She slid off the stool, her heart hammering against her ribs. With each step, the figure became clearer. The messy dark hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way he held himself—slightly hunched, as if bracing for impact. Evan. Her ex. The man she'd fled Cardiff to escape. The man whose fists had taught her that love and pain could wear the same face. He looked up as she approached, his eyes widening in recognition. They were still the same deep brown she remembered, but now they were shadowed with something new. Exhaustion? Regret? "Rory." His voice was rough, as if he hadn't used it much lately. "I wasn't sure you'd come." "What are you doing here, Evan?" Her voice was steady, belying the tremor in her hands. She clenched them into fists at her sides. "I needed to see you." He gestured to the seat opposite him. "Please?" Rory hesitated, then slid into the booth, the worn vinyl cool against her thighs. She kept her distance, pressing herself against the back of the seat. "Five years," Evan said, staring at his hands on the table. "Has it really been five years?" "Feels longer." Rory's eyes darted around the bar, landing on Silas, who was pointedly not watching them while simultaneously watching everything. "How did you find me?" "Your friend Eva." Evan winced. "She didn't want to tell me, but I was persistent. And persuasive." Rory's jaw tightened. Eva had promised not to give Evan her new contact information. Some promises apparently didn't mean as much as others. "You look different," Evan said, his gaze traveling over her face, her body. "Your hair..." "I cut it." She'd chopped it off the week after she'd left him, severing the connection along with any remaining vulnerability. "Life changes people." "You always were stronger than me." His fingers traced patterns on the wooden table. "I wanted to apologize. Properly this time." Rory snorted. "The flowers and cards you sent to my parents' house weren't enough?" "I was ashamed. And stupid. I thought if I could just say the right words..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Therapy helps you understand these things. Helps you understand why you become someone you hate." Rory studied him, really looked at him this time. The lines around his eyes were deeper than she remembered. There was a gauntness to his cheeks that hadn't been there before. He'd lost weight, and not in a healthy way. "You're not here just to apologize," she said, her voice flat. "No." He met her eyes then, and the raw vulnerability in them caught her off guard. "I'm dying. Cancer. Stage four." The words hung between them, heavy and undeniable. Rory should have felt satisfaction, justice, some vindication that life had dealt him the blow she never could. Instead, she felt nothing but a hollow ache in her chest. "I don't know what you want me to say," she finally managed. "Nothing. I don't want anything from you." Evan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped box. "I just wanted you to have this. To know that even when I was at my worst, some part of me remembered who you were. Who you are." He slid the box across the table. Rory stared at it, then back at him. "I'm not the same person you knew, Evan. And you're not the same person I left." "I know." A sad smile touched his lips. "But time doesn't erase everything, does it? Sometimes it just weighs heavier." Rory's fingers brushed against the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a reminder of a different time, a different accident from long before Evan. A reminder that some marks stay with you, regardless of how much time passes. She took the box but didn't open it. "I should go." "Of course." Evan stood as she did, towering over her as he always had, yet seeming somehow smaller now. "It was good to see you, Rory. Even if it was just this once." She nodded, not trusting her voice. As she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her back, the weight of five years and all the unspoken words between them pressing down on her shoulders. Silas met her at the bar as she reclaimed her stool. His gaze flickered between her and the corner where Evan still stood, watching. "Everything alright?" he asked, placing a small glass of amber liquid in front of her. Rory stared at the drink, then at the box in her hand. "No. But it will be." She downed the whiskey in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the ache in her chest. Outside, the London rain began to fall, washing the streets clean as the green neon sign continued its silent vigil over The Raven's Nest.