Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXK25XGSHSWJTKY31D6FGV

The neon glow from the green sign outside bled through the fogged window, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor of The Raven's Nest. Aurora Carter wiped down the bar counter, the cloth moving in absent circles as her mind wandered elsewhere. Tuesday nights were quiet. Silas had disappeared into the back room an hour ago, likely nursing a glass of whiskey while poring over whatever intelligence reports still found their way to him. The door swung open, bringing with it a gust of November cold and the scent of rain-soaked wool. Rory glanced up, expecting one of the regulars—maybe old Tom with his endless stories about the merchant navy, or perhaps Sarah, the barrister who stopped by after late nights at the chambers. Instead, a woman stood in the doorway, shaking water from an umbrella that had seen better days. Dark hair, cut severe and short against a angular face. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Eyes that swept the room with an assessment that spoke of years spent looking for threats in crowded spaces. Rory's hand stilled on the cloth. The woman's gaze landed on the bar, and something flickered across her face—recognition, surprise, then a careful blankness that settled over her features. "Mind if I get a drink?" That voice. Lower than Rory remembered, rougher at the edges, but underneath it all, still unmistakably her. "Miriam." The name fell from Rory's lips before she could stop it. Eight years. Eight years since Cardiff, since late nights in the university library, since shared flats and inside jokes and promises to stay in touch that neither of them had kept. Miriam approached the bar, each step measured. She wore a tailored charcoal coat over a black roll-neck, and when she placed her hands on the counter, Rory noticed the absence of rings. No wedding band. No engagement ring. The Miriam she'd known had worn a diamond on her left hand since second year, proud and certain of her future. "What are you doing in London?" Miriam slid onto a barstool, her posture rigid. "Business. I wasn't expecting to find you here." "Clearly." Rory reached for a glass, buying herself time to process. "What can I get you?" "Whiskey. Neat. Whatever's decent." Rory selected a bottle from the shelf behind her—the good stuff Silas kept for special occasions, or for people who looked like they needed it. She poured two fingers into the glass and set it down. Miriam wrapped her fingers around it but didn't drink. Her gaze moved across Rory's face, cataloguing changes the way one might scan a document for errors. "You look different." "So do you." It was an understatement. The Miriam Kowalski that Rory remembered had been soft around the edges, quick to laugh, always the first to suggest another round or a late-night adventure. She'd been studying psychology, planning to open a practice, talking about children and a house in the suburbs with her fiancé. This Miriam looked like she hadn't laughed in months. The softness was gone, replaced by something harder, sharper. The kind of hardness that came from necessity rather than choice. "Last I heard, you were in Bristol," Rory said. "Marcus got that position at the law firm there." Miriam's jaw tightened. A small movement, barely perceptible, but Rory caught it. "He did. For a while." Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant murmur of jazz from the speakers and the drum of rain against the window. Rory thought about filling it—asking more questions, offering platitudes, doing any of the things that old friends did when they reconnected after years apart. But this wasn't a reunion. This was something else entirely. Two strangers wearing the faces of people who used to know each other. "I heard about your father," Miriam said finally. "I'm sorry." Rory's hand moved unconsciously to her left wrist, fingers tracing the crescent scar beneath her sleeve. "He's not dead." "No. But he might as well be, from what I understand." The words landed with surgical precision. Rory felt them settle somewhere beneath her ribs, a familiar ache that had become almost comfortable over the years. "You always did know how to cut to the bone." "Psychology degree." Miriam lifted her glass, took a slow sip. "Though I suppose that's common knowledge by now. Google is a terrible thing for keeping secrets." "Is that how you found me?" "Among other things." Rory leaned against the back counter, folding her arms. "Why are you really here, Miriam? You said business, but you didn't know I worked at this bar. So what brings you to Soho on a rainy Tuesday night?" For a moment, Miriam didn't answer. She stared into her glass as though the amber liquid might offer answers to questions she hadn't yet voiced. When she looked up, her eyes held something Rory couldn't quite read. Regret, maybe. Or resignation. "I left Marcus." The confession hung in the air, simple and devastating. Rory waited. "Three years ago. He—" Miriam stopped, her throat working. "He wasn't who I thought he was. Or maybe I wasn't who I thought I was. Either way, the life we'd planned..." She made a sound that might have been a laugh in another life. "It turns out you can plan every detail and still wake up one morning and realise none of it fits anymore." Rory thought about Cardiff. About Evan. About the night she'd packed a bag and fled to London with nothing but Eva's voice in her ear and the desperate need to be somewhere—anywhere—else. "Sometimes the plans we make are just the stories we tell ourselves to feel safe." Miriam's sharp gaze fixed on her. "You sound like someone who's learned that the hard way." "Everyone does, eventually." The door to the back room swung open, and Silas emerged, his limp more pronounced than usual. His hazel eyes moved from Rory to Miriam, assessing the tension in the air with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent decades reading rooms. "Everything alright out here?" Rory straightened. "Old friend. We were just catching up." Silas's gaze lingered on Miriam for a moment longer than necessary. He'd spent a lifetime spotting trouble, and whatever he saw in the woman at the bar clearly registered on whatever internal radar he still maintained. "Let me know if you need anything." He moved past them toward the staircase that led to the upper floors, his silver signet ring catching the low light as he gripped the bannister. When he was gone, Miriam exhaled slowly. "He's not just a bar owner." "No." "Neither are you just a bartender." Rory smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "No." Miriam finished her whiskey in one long swallow and set the glass down with a decisive click. "I should go. I have an early meeting." "Stay." The word slipped out before Rory could examine it. Miriam paused, halfway off her stool. "I've got a bottle of the good stuff and a quiet bar." Rory reached for the whiskey, poured another measure into Miriam's glass. "Whatever brought you here tonight, it can wait a little longer. Tell me about Bristol. Tell me about leaving. Tell me about the years I missed." Something shifted in Miriam's expression. The hardness cracked, just slightly, and beneath it, Rory glimpsed the friend she'd once known—the one who'd held her hair back after too many tequila shots, who'd studied until dawn and still showed up with coffee for everyone else, who'd believed in happy endings with an optimism that had been almost painful to witness. "You really want to know?" "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." Miriam settled back onto the stool. Outside, the rain continued its relentless assault on the city, but inside, the green glow of the neon sign wrapped around them both. "It started with the small things," Miriam began, her voice barely above a whisper. "The way he'd correct me in front of people. Little comments about my weight. About my friends. About the way I laughed too loud." Her fingers traced the rim of her glass. "By the time I realised what was happening, I couldn't remember who I was without him." Rory said nothing. She simply listened, and in the quiet of the bar, two old friends began the slow work of finding each other again.