Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXBZMWT0V47R7EAZV4Q52A

The low hum of The Raven's Nest was a familiar comfort, a sound that seeped into Aurora’s bones after a long day. She traced the condensation on her glass of water, the chill a welcome prickle against her fingertips. Old maps, their continents faded and seas yellowed with age, papered the walls between framed black-and-white photographs of forgotten London corners. From behind the polished oak bar, Silas moved with a quiet economy, his slight limp almost imperceptible. He wiped down the counter, the silver of his signet ring catching the dim, amber light. This was her sanctuary, the quiet space beneath the floorboards of her own flat. A voice cut through the murmur of the few other patrons. A voice from another lifetime. "Rory? My god. Rory Carter?" Aurora froze. No one had called her that in years. The name felt like a costume she had shed, ill-fitting and strange. She turned slowly on her stool, her eyes finding the man standing a few feet away. He wore a tailored navy suit, the kind that cost more than her rent for six months, and his hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. Recognition washed over her, cold and immediate. Liam. Liam Davies from Cardiff. His face was fuller, etched with the faint lines of early success, but the earnest, slightly bewildered brown eyes were the same. He broke into a wide, disbelieving smile. "It is you! I thought I was seeing things. What on earth are you doing here?" He gestured around the bar, a hint of something—pity, maybe, or just confusion—in the sweep of his hand. "I live upstairs." Her voice was flat, offering nothing more. "You live... above a pub?" He pulled out the stool next to her, his expensive cologne a sudden, jarring scent in the familiar air of stale beer and woodsmoke. "Last I heard, your dad was telling everyone you were a shoo-in for a training contract at some magic circle firm." Aurora took a slow sip of water, the ice clinking against her teeth. She could feel Silas’s gaze, a quiet weight from across the room. He didn't look over, just continued polishing a glass, but she knew he was listening. "Plans change." "Well, yeah, clearly." Liam flagged down Silas. "Can I get a Macallan, neat? And whatever she's having." He glanced at her water. "Or something stronger. Come on, Ror, it's been what, six years? This calls for a celebration." "Water is fine." She pushed her glass forward slightly. "And it's just Aurora now." The friendliness in his eyes faltered, the smile tightening at the corners. He nodded, a slow, awkward gesture. "Right. Aurora. Of course." He turned back to the bar, his shoulders stiff. Silas placed the whisky in front of him without a word, his expression unreadable. Liam took a large swallow of the amber liquid, the glass making a sharp sound as he set it down. "So. This is a bit of a coincidence. I'm in town for a merger deal. Staying at The Savoy. You should see the view, it's..." He trailed off, seeing the complete lack of interest on her face. "Anyway. How have you been? Really?" The question hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded. How could she begin to answer that? Tell him about the shouting matches with her father over a law degree she never wanted? About Evan, and the suffocating darkness of that relationship? About fleeing to London with nothing but a rucksack and Eva’s phone number? About the relief of disappearing into the anonymity of the city, delivering noodles for Yu-Fei, finding a strange kind of peace in this world of shadows and unspoken rules, a world Silas presided over? "I'm good, Liam. Working. Paying the bills." "Doing what?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're not... you're not in trouble, are you? If you need money—" A laugh escaped her, sharp and without humour. "I'm a delivery driver." His face was a picture of incomprehension. "A what? Like, for Amazon?" "A restaurant. The Golden Empress." "Oh." The single word was a novel of disappointment. He stared into his whisky, swirling it in the glass. "Right. Well. That's... unexpected." He looked up, his gaze catching on her left wrist as she rested it on the bar. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You still have that." She followed his gaze to the faint, crescent-shaped scar there. A ghost of a memory surfaced: a summer afternoon, climbing the old oak behind his parents’ house, the snap of a branch, the sharp, surprising pain. Liam, panicked, had helped her fashion a bandage from his own t-shirt. He had held her hand the whole way home. "It's part of the furniture," she said, her tone cool. She pulled the sleeve of her jacket down. "I remember that day." His voice was softer now, nostalgic. "You cried, but you wouldn't let me tell your mum. Said you'd get in trouble for ripping your jeans." He smiled, a genuine, sad smile this time. "You were always stubborn. Fiercely independent. I always admired that." The memory felt like it belonged to someone else. The girl who cared about ripped jeans and parental disapproval was long gone. "We were kids," she said, dismissing the sentiment. "Yeah. We were." He drained his glass and motioned to Silas for another. "I saw Evan, you know. About a year ago, back in Cardiff." The name landed like a stone in a still pond. Her posture didn't change. Her expression remained placid. But inside, something went cold and hard. "He asked about you. Seemed pretty cut up that you'd just vanished." "Did he?" Liam seemed to finally notice the absolute zero in her voice. He shifted on his stool, the confident facade cracking. "Look, I know he was a bit of a knob, but—" "You don't know anything, Liam." The words were quiet, but they cut the air between them. There was no heat in them, only a chilling finality. He recoiled as if struck. He studied her face, truly looked at her for the first time since he had walked in. He wasn't seeing the bright, argumentative Rory Carter from university anymore. He was seeing the woman who sat before him now: cool-headed, her bright blue eyes holding a depth he couldn't possibly fathom. He saw the way she held herself, a coiled stillness, and the way the old man behind the bar watched over her with a proprietary air. He was an intruder in a world that had its own language, its own gravity. "No," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "I guess I don't." He finished his second whisky in one long, desperate gulp, and stood up, fumbling for his wallet. He threw a fifty-pound note on the counter. It was far too much. "It was... something, seeing you, Aurora." He backed away from the bar. "Take care of yourself." He turned and walked out, the little bell above the door chiming his exit. Aurora watched his reflection disappear from the dark glass of the window, a well-dressed ghost fading back into a life she no longer recognised. The silence he left behind was profound. She felt Silas's presence beside her. He placed a small glass of amber liquid next to her hand—not water. She looked up at him. His hazel eyes were steady, asking nothing. "On the house," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. He began wiping down the section of the bar where Liam had been sitting, erasing the last trace of him.