Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXKFRT1A4BASNA9TPKCHP5

The air in The Raven’s Nest was thick with the scent of old wood and spilled whiskey. Aurora wiped down the same stretch of mahogany for the third time, her thoughts miles away, when the bell above the door chimed. She didn’t look up. It was a Thursday, and Thursday’s clientele were usually regulars—weary journalists from the nearby papers, a few off-duty musicians, Silas’s peculiar acquaintances who spoke in low tones by the dartboard. A voice cut through the murmur. “Rory?” It was a voice from another life. A voice that belonged to sunlit quadrangles and shared textbooks, to a time before London’s grey soaked into her bones. Aurora’s head snapped up, the cloth freezing in her hand. He stood just inside the door, haloed by the green neon glow from the sign outside. Evan. But not the Evan she remembered. The sharp, boyish angles of his face had softened into a settled weariness. His hair, once a careless sandy mop, was cut short and neat, revealing a slight recession at the temples. He wore a charcoal wool coat over a crisp shirt, no tie. He looked like a solicitor, or a banker. He looked like someone’s father. “Evan.” “God. Rory Carter.” He took a few steps into the gloom, his eyes adjusting. “I was walking past, saw the sign. I thought… it couldn’t be.” “It is.” She dropped the cloth behind the bar, her movements deliberate. The small crescent scar on her left wrist seemed to pulse under the dim lights. “What are you doing in London?” “Conference. Financial compliance.” He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “Dull as ditchwater. I’m staying at a hotel around the corner.” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “Can I…?” “It’s a bar.” Her tone was flat. “You can sit anywhere you like.” He chose a stool at the far end, placing a leather briefcase at his feet. Aurora watched him scan the room—the framed maps of old London, the black-and-white photos of musicians Silas claimed to have known, the dusty shelves of obscure spirits. His gaze lingered on nothing. “This is your place?” “I work here. Part-time.” “Right.” He nodded slowly, as if filing the information away. “You look well, Rory.” “You look different.” He let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Time. Two kids, a mortgage in Cheltenham. It does things.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the bar. “What are you drinking?” “I’m working.” “Right. Of course. Sorry.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “A whiskey, then. Whatever’s good.” She turned to the shelves, her back to him, and selected a bottle of single malt. She poured two fingers into a clean glass, the amber liquid catching the light. When she slid it toward him, their fingers didn’t touch. “Cheers.” He took a sip, wincing slightly as it went down. “Strong.” “It’s meant to be.” Silence settled between them, heavy and awkward, filled only by the low hum of a jazz record from Silas’s old turntable in the corner. “I heard you left Cardiff,” Evan said finally. “I tried calling. Your number was disconnected.” “I changed it.” “I gathered.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. “You just… vanished. Your mum wouldn’t say much. Just that you’d moved to London, were doing your own thing.” “That’s about the sum of it.” “Rory.” He said her name softly, the way he used to when he wanted her attention. “You could have told me you were leaving.” She leaned her elbows on the bar, her bright blue eyes fixed on him. “Could I?” He held her gaze for a moment, then looked down into his drink. “I suppose I deserved that.” “What do you want, Evan? Nostalgia? Absolution? It’s been years.” “I want to know you’re okay.” The words came out in a rush, tinged with a frustration she remembered all too well. “I think about it, you know. What I did. What I said. The way I… the way I was. It wasn’t right.” Aurora said nothing. She watched a couple at a corner table lean in to share a secret, their laughter a soft bubble in the quiet room. “I’ve been in therapy,” he continued, his voice lower now, confidential. “For three years. Started not long after you left, actually. It’s… it’s helped. Made me see things. Patterns.” “Good for you.” “Don’t do that.” His knuckles were white around the glass. “Don’t shut me out with sarcasm. Not now. I’m trying to… I don’t know. Bridge the gap.” “There is no gap, Evan. There’s a canyon. You’re on one side with your conference and your compliance and your therapy. I’m over here, wiping a bar in Soho. The bridge collapsed a long time ago.” He finished the whiskey in one long swallow, setting the glass down with a definitive click. “I got married. Her name’s Chloe. She’s a teacher. We have a boy, Alfie, and a girl, Matilda.” “Congratulations.” “Is that all you have to say?” “What would you like me to say? I’m glad you’re happy? I hope you’re a better husband than you were a boyfriend?” The words were cool, precise, devoid of malice. They were simply facts. He flinched. “I am. I try to be. Every day.” “I believe you.” And she did. The man before her was a stranger, a careful, measured man who carried a briefcase and winced at strong drink. The boy who had shouted, who had grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave bruises that faded, who had twisted her words until she doubted her own mind—that boy was gone. Eradicated by time and regret and the civilizing force of suburban life. The ghost of him lingered in the air between them, a silent third party to the conversation. “What about you?” he asked, changing tack. “Seeing anyone?” “No.” “Working here full-time?” “I deliver Chinese food by day.” His eyebrows lifted, just for a second, before he schooled his features back into polite interest. The flash of judgment was so brief, so instinctive, but she saw it. The old Rory would have missed it. The new Rory catalogued it. “That sounds… independent.” “It pays the rent on the flat upstairs.” Another silence, longer this time. The jazz record ended with a soft crackle, and the needle lifted automatically, returning to its cradle. “I miss you, Rory.” The confession was quiet, almost swallowed by the sudden stillness. “I miss who we were. Before it all went wrong.” “I don’t.” The words were simple, final. “I don’t miss the person I was with you. She was scared all the time. She made herself small. She apologised for existing.” He looked as if she’d struck him. All the practised calm, the therapeutic insights, evaporated. The man who remained looked bruised, and tired, and old. “I’m so sorry.” “I know you are.” “Is that enough?” “It has to be.” She pushed herself away from the bar. “There’s nothing else. It’s done.” He stared at his empty glass, then at his hands—hands that once clenched in anger, now resting placidly on the polished wood. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened? If I’d gotten help sooner? If I’d just… been different?” “No.” It was the truth. The life she lived now—the bar, Silas’s cryptic mentorship, the tiny flat with its view of fire escapes, the fierce independence she wore like armour—was built on the ashes of that other life. To wonder was to doubt the foundation. “This is what happened.” He nodded, accepting the verdict. He pulled out his wallet, left a twenty-pound note on the bar, far too much for the drink. “For your time.” “You don’t have to.” “I do.” He stood, picking up his briefcase. He looked at her, really looked at her, as if trying to memorize this new version—the straight black hair, the steady gaze, the woman who was no longer his. “Take care of yourself, Aurora.” He used her full name. A formal farewell. A seal on the past. “Goodbye, Evan.” He turned and walked out of The Raven’s Nest, his figure swallowed by the bustling Soho evening. The bell chimed once more behind him. Aurora picked up the twenty-pound note, smoothed it, and tucked it into the till. She picked up the damp cloth and returned to wiping the bar, her movements slow and methodical. She cleaned the spot where his glass had been, then the space where his elbows had rested, erasing the faint traces of his presence. The weight of the years settled around her, not as a burden, but as a fact—solid, immutable, and finally, quiet.