Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXT01X997XAAMDV1FWJ20Z

The green neon of the sign outside seeped through the front windows and painted the rows of bottles in a sickly halo. The Raven’s Nest carried its usual hush, broken by low talk and the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor. Old maps sagged in their frames along the walls, their inked coastlines blurred from age and moisture. The black‑and‑white photographs watched everything with their fixed dead eyes. Rory stacked pint glasses beneath the bar, each one clinking the next. Her hands moved on their own. Shoulders loose. Eyes on the mirror behind the shelves more than on the customers. Silas limped past behind her, a crate of dark ales in his arms, his silver ring catching a bar‑light flash. “Lift with your knees, grandad.” “Mock the infirm, will you.” His voice came out dry as the beer mats. He nudged the crate onto the floor with his boot and straightened with a quiet grunt. His gaze swept the room, that old scanning habit he never quite dropped. He lingered on a trio of suits near the back, then the lone woman by the jukebox, then the door. The bell over the entrance jangled. A gust of city wet pressed through as someone came in from the Soho drizzle. Rory glanced up with the reflex of someone who brought people plates and drinks for rent money. The newcomer shook rain from a pale trench coat and pushed the hood back. Dark red hair twisted into a low knot at the nape. Tailored navy suit beneath, thin leather briefcase in hand. The sort of outfit that made people talk different. She moved toward the bar, heels ticking against the floorboards, eyes on the chalkboard with the beers. “Christ. That’s a lot of IPAs.” Rory reached for a glass without looking. “Blame Silas. It’s his midlife crisis on tap.” A laugh, short and surprised. “That voice. No way.” The woman’s attention dropped from the chalkboard and caught on Rory’s face. Her eyes flashed wide, then narrowed as if a lens focused. “Rory?” The glass slipped in Rory’s grip and thudded against the counter instead of the rack. A thin crack feathered out from the rim. “No one calls me that here.” “Holy— Aurora Carter.” The woman’s mouth curved. “Laila. Tell me you still hate that one.” Rory leaned on the bar with both hands, bracing against it. “Only person who called me Laila had a death wish. And you always preferred ‘Trouble’ anyway, Niamh.” Niamh O’Connell’s laugh poured out, louder this time, edged with disbelief. “You recognise me. Look at you. London turned you into a hipster bartender.” “Part‑time. I deliver Chinese food the rest of the week. It’s very glamorous.” Rory scanned her. “You… got eaten by an internship and spat out as— what is that, corporate law?” “Something like that.” Niamh laid the briefcase on a stool, fingers lingering on the handle as if it might disappear. “Can I get you something or are you just here to insult the décor.” “Both. Whatever stout you pretend is Irish.” Rory pulled the tap. The dark liquid slid into the glass with a smooth head. She pushed it across. “On the house for old times’ sake.” “You never gave anything away for free at uni.” “That was my stationery. Different economy.” Niamh took a drink, eyes half closed. “This beats the hotel bar by a mile. I spent an hour in there listening to a man from Milan explain crypto to a fern.” “You always had a talent for attracting the worst men in the room.” “You dated Evan,” Niamh shot back, too fast. The name dropped between them like a stone into a shallow puddle. The ripples showed on Rory’s face in a tightening at the mouth, a small twitch of her fingers on the bar. Silas straightened from the crate. His glance flicked from Rory to Niamh, then to the clock. “I’ll do the cellar run. Don’t start a fight with the customers unless they deserve it, Carter.” “You say that like I start them.” “You end them. That’s the useful part.” He shuffled toward the back, the limp more obvious when he moved quick. The door to the stockroom swung shut behind him, muting the clink of bottles. Niamh watched him go. “Is that your boss or your guard dog.” “Bit of both.” “How old is he, like seventy.” “Fifty‑eight. He remembers the Cold War, which makes him useful. That and he pays rent on time.” “Cold War. Since when do you care about that stuff.” “Since I started living above his bar and learned his bedtime stories feature dead drop boxes instead of dragons.” Niamh shook her head, amused and bewildered. “Only you’d run away and land in some spy pub in Soho.” Rory wiped a ring of condensation from the counter. “‘Run away’ makes it sound dramatic. I took the Megabus.” “You disappeared. Overnight.” Niamh’s voice thinned around the edges. “No text. No email. Nothing. One day you’re next to me in seminar throwing a fit about tort reform, the next… ghost.” Rory eyed the rack of glasses, the dead faces in the photographs, anywhere but Niamh. “Cardiff got too small.” “It was a city, not a village.” “Felt like a fishbowl by the end.” “By the end of what.” “You tell me.” Niamh swallowed more stout. The foam clung to her upper lip before she wiped it away with the back of her hand, same crude gesture from the union bar days. “You left me with your parents on my doorstep. Your dad in his grey coat, your mum with that hamper of food. Asking where their daughter went.” Rory’s jaw clenched. A pulse moved in her temple. “They came to you?” “Of course they did. I was the friend they knew by name. I sat them in that grim kitchen I paid too much rent for and brewed tea in the cracked kettle, and I lied for you.” A flush crept up Rory’s neck. “What did you tell them.” “That you needed space. That law was crushing you. That you’d call when you figured it out.” “That wasn’t a lie.” “It was partial truth. Like a witness who edits the story to look braver.” “You gave good testimony. You always did.” Niamh’s laugh lost its earlier brightness. “I covered for you, Rory. I thought you trusted me enough to tell me why you ran. Turns out you just trusted me to deal with the fallout.” Rory leaned back, arms folding tight across her ribcage. The scar on her wrist peeked from under her sleeve, crescent pale against tan skin. “I didn’t have time to do exit interviews.” “You had time to leave a note on the fridge about the milk.” “That was logistics.” “It hurt.” The two words landed without drama. They settled between them heavier than the earlier name. Rory met Niamh’s gaze. The bright blue of her eyes dulled to something cooler. “I know.” “You don’t.” “I know what it feels like when someone vanishes on you without a word.” “Evan.” Rory’s mouth twisted. “Top of the class, Niamh. Deductive skills untouched by time.” Niamh set her glass down with care, as if the wood might crack. “He didn’t vanish. You did.” “He vanished first. Just not in the geographic sense.” Niamh’s face lost some colour. “I… saw things. Back then. Bruises. You turned clumsy overnight. You never were.” Rory’s fingers curled around a bar towel. “You thought I picked up a new hobby falling down stairs.” “I thought you’d punch my lights out if I asked the wrong question. You walked into lectures like you’d eaten gunpowder. Every time Evan put his arm around you, your shoulders went rigid. You two fought in the corridor once. I heard him… I heard enough.” Rory’s voice dropped. “And you did… what.” “Nothing.” The word hit like an admission in court. “I did nothing. I told myself it wasn’t my business. That you’d hate me if I made it mine. That you were too smart to let anyone…” She broke off and studied the rings in the wood. “You were the brave one, you know. The one who took on professors and deans and that landlord with the mould. I convinced myself you were in control. That if you needed help, you’d ask. I hid behind that.” Silence stretched. The jukebox at the back sputtered to life on some old soul track, low enough that the lyrics blurred into a distant hum. Rory dragged a hand through her black hair. It had been longer in Cardiff, always pulled into a messy ponytail. Now it fell sharp at her shoulders, blunt as the way she held herself. “I almost called you the night I left,” she said. “Phone in my hand, bag packed, keys on the table. I had the digits on the screen. Thumb hovering.” Niamh’s eyes flicked up. “What stopped you.” “He was in the next room, pacing. I heard his footsteps. If he woke and saw me with the suitcase…” Her jaw tightened. “I thought if I called, I’d talk myself out of it. You’d talk me out of it. You’d list all the reasons to stay until the sun came up and I’d still be there.” “I would’ve driven you to the station myself.” “I didn’t know that.” “You never asked.” “No.” Niamh exhaled, something frayed loosening in her shoulders. “So you took the bus to London. Found a spy with a limp and a bar full of maps. Became a bartender saints would envy. Meanwhile I stayed and finished your dream.” “Dad’s dream.” “Fine. Brendan Carter’s dream. He treated me like the substitute daughter. Invited me to Sunday roasts I didn’t want. Sent books he thought I should read. He never said it, but every congratulations card came with your absence underlined in invisible ink.” Rory’s mouth quirked. “I always knew he liked you better.” “That’s not the point.” “No. The point is you did the thing I was supposed to do.” Niamh shifted on the stool. The tailored suit pulled at her shoulders. “You think that’s some perfect outcome.” “You look like a magazine advert for Female Success. Fancy suit. Expensive briefcase. Talking about hotel bars and Milan nerds and whatever.” “It’s four hotels in three cities this week and a flight at six in the morning. It’s partners who call at midnight to ask why I’m not on my laptop. It’s learning how to sleep sitting up in taxis because you get home too late to bother with a bed.” “You love it though.” “I loved the idea of it. Being the girl from Limerick who walks into the High Court with a wig and scares the life out of old men. The reality turned out more like spreadsheets and billing targets.” “You always did have a kink for stationery.” That dragged a reluctant smile out of Niamh. “You joke, but I do own more highlighters than friends.” “That tracks.” Niamh took another sip, slower. “And you. Delivery driver in London. Part‑time bartender. Flat above a pub that looks like a Cold War museum. This your dream.” Rory glanced around. The scuffed bar. The old clock. Silas’s half‑finished crossword by the till. The faint buzz of the neon sign over the door. “Never dreamed this far,” she answered. “Dreams stopped at ‘not sharing a bed with someone who punches walls’.” “That a low bar or a realistic one.” “Depends who you date.” Niamh rolled the glass between her palms, the stout stain swirling. “I went back to your old place once. After you left. Landlord had already stripped it. Your room looked smaller empty. He said, ‘The girl cleared out fast.’” “I did.” “He said he’d miss Evan’s punctual rent.” Rory barked a laugh with no humour in it. “Bet he would.” “I wanted to find you,” Niamh went on. “I googled. Checked Facebook. Nothing. You erased yourself like a pro.” “That was the point.” “You could’ve sent a single message.” “What would I write. ‘Hi Niamh. Gone underground. Don’t call. Love, Rory’.” “I would’ve kept the phone by my bed every night in case you changed your mind.” “You already kept the books and my parents. Couldn’t give you the anxiety too.” Niamh rubbed at her temple. “You turned martyr without telling me. Classic.” “It’s not martyrdom. It’s cowardice dressed up in concern.” “At least you know.” Rory shrugged. “I know I didn’t want you dragged into his rage. He already hated how much time we spent together. You remember those fights in the flat when you stayed late studying.” “He glared holes in my back.” “He once asked if I was in love with you.” Niamh’s head snapped up. “What did you say.” “I laughed. Told him no. Told him you’d never shut up long enough for anyone to love you.” Niamh stared. “That hurt more than it should.” “It shut him up. For that night.” “And were you.” “Was I what.” “In love with me.” Rory’s fingers stilled on the bar towel. The ambient murmur of the pub swelled around them, a muted tide. “That’s not the regret I carry.” “Sounds adjacent.” Rory studied her. The sharp lines of Niamh’s cheekbones, the faint crease between her brows that law school carved there, the smudge of mascara at her lower lashes from long hours. “I regret leaving you the way I did,” she said. “I regret not trusting you with how bad it got. I regret weaponising your loyalty and then vanishing. The rest… falls into a different category.” Niamh’s lips parted. Closed again. “Different category like what.” “File marked ‘What If’ that no one ever opens.” “You think I don’t have one of those. For you.” Rory blinked. “Don’t rewrite history just because the stout’s decent.” “In second year when we pulled that all‑nighter at the library,” Niamh went on, ignoring her, “we crashed on that orange sofa in the common room. You remember.” “With the questionable stain.” “You fell asleep on my shoulder. My arm went dead. I didn’t move because I thought if I did, you’d get up and the spell would break.” “Spell.” “Moment. Whatever. Point is, I lied there for an hour, wide awake, thinking, ‘So this is it. This is what it feels like to want someone sitting two inches away and have no clue what to do.’” Rory looked away, the mirror behind the bottles throwing back a warped version of her face. “You never said.” “You were dating him. And you’d built this whole personality around being invincible. How did I fit ‘by the way, I might fancy you’ into that.” “You could’ve started with ‘Put the highlighter down and kiss me’.” “You’d have laughed.” “Or I’d have done it.” They sat with that for a beat. The jukebox shifted tracks. Someone near the door ordered another round. Glasses clinked. A chair scraped. Niamh’s throat worked. “Do you ever miss it. Law. Cardiff. Old you.” Rory thought of textbooks lined in neon ink. Of her father quizzing her on case law at the dinner table. Of Niamh’s laughter echoing down campus halls. Of Evan’s shadow in the doorway, blocking the light. “I miss the part where my brain felt on fire,” she said. “Arguing a point until the words tasted of blood. I don’t miss having every opinion graded.” “You’d still crush a cross‑examination.” “I cross‑examine drunk bankers now about whether they can stand or not. Different arena.” “You could come back.” “There it is.” Rory’s mouth drew tight. “I mean more broadly. Law. Some version that doesn’t involve appeasing your dad or dating men who break things.” “You sound like my mum.” “She taught for thirty years and still liked children afterwards. Woman deserves the benefit of the doubt.” Rory picked at a chip in the varnish. “I’m good here,” she said. “For now. I know where the exits are. I know who comes in and out. I sleep through the night most weeks. That counts.” Niamh traced a circle on the damp wood with her fingertip. “I didn’t come in here tonight planning this conversation.” “You planning is a contradiction.” “I had a client dinner off Oxford Street. Got away early. Wandered. The neon sign looked like an omen or a bad decision. I chose bad decision. Then you turn up behind the bar like some twisted punchline.” “London’s small when you owe it money.” “You always wanted out and you did it. I wanted in and—” She gestured at the suit. “—here we are.” Rory studied her friend. “You look tired,” she said. “You look… lighter.” “Cheaper beer helps.” “That all it is.” “I wake up and no one checks my phone or my clothes. No one tracks what time I come home. That takes weight off.” “That shouldn’t have been radical.” “Shouldn’t. Was.” Niamh drained the last of the stout. The glass landed with a soft thunk. “I’m in town until Friday,” she said. “After that, who knows. Berlin. Dubai. Another place where the hotels all smell of industrial air freshener. I don’t… I don’t know if we get another chance like this.” Rory’s fingers tightened on the towel. “We’re having it now.” “I know. I just—” Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a low insect sound. She ignored it. Let it buzz again. After the third, she exhaled and fished it out. The screen glowed with a name and an office logo. She held it up in apology. “I have to take this.” “Duty calls.” “Clients whine.” She slid off the stool, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said, already stepping toward the door. “I mean— you know what I mean.” Rory watched her weave between tables. At the threshold, Niamh paused and glanced back. Their eyes met across the dim room, over the distance stacked with years and choices. Then Niamh lifted the phone to her ear and pushed the door open. The green neon washed over her face as the night swallowed her. The bell over the entrance jangled once and settled. Rory turned to the empty glass on the bar and picked it up, thumb running along the rim where Niamh’s lipstick left a faint mark.