Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXXJNS22W0PPRGPCYD384B

Rain hammered against the glass awning above the entrance, turning the cobblestones outside into slick black mirrors. Rory pulled the collar of her jacket tighter, tucking her chin down against the chill. The heavy brass handle of the front door groaned under her weight as she pushed inside, the bell above it chiming a sharp, discordant note that cut through the low murmur of conversation. The Raven’s Nest smelled the same as it always had—oak polish, stale tobacco, and the distinct, sharp aroma of a gin press. The green neon sign casting a flickering glow near the door pulsed in rhythm with the city’s heartbeat outside. Rory paused, shaking a damp umbrella on the mat, and scanned the room. She was twenty minutes late, and Yu-Fei wouldn’t care about the rain, but she knew better than to walk in looking disheveled. The room was a cavern of dark mahogany walls hung with old maps of London and black-and-white photographs that seemed to stare back from the gloom. She weaved through the knot of smoke in the center of the bar, stepping over the legs of patrons lost in the amber glow of their pints. A figure sat in the corner booth near the back wall. He was nursing a single scotch, his grey-streaked auburn hair pulled back loosely from his face, revealing a beard that had thickened with age. The signet ring on his right hand caught the dim light, a bright flash of silver. Silas. Rory’s steps faltered. She knew him. She knew his silhouette better than she knew the back of her own hand. He looked up then, his hazel eyes moving over her rain-slicked hair, the box of delivery food forgotten in her grip. Recognition dawned in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, followed by a slow, heavy weight that settled into the lines of his forehead. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. He simply set the glass down with a soft *thud* and watched her cross the distance. "You look taller than I remember," Silas said, his voice a gravelly baritone that seemed to resonate in the empty space between them. "I take the bus," Rory replied, stepping into the booth opposite him. "And I stopped growing in the ninth grade." "Stubborn." "Always." Silas reached for the bottle, pouring a fresh measure with a practiced hand. The amber liquid hissed into the crystal glass. He slid it across the wood toward her. "Yu-Fei says hello. She sends her regards." "Tell her I’m keeping the tips this week." "I will." He leaned back, his leg shifting slightly in a way that spoke of a long ago pain finally settling in. " Cardiff." "Sort of." "You didn't come to the funeral." Rory’s fingers tightened around the cool condensation on her glass. The delivery box sat on the seat next to her, the heat from the curry inside radiating through the cardboard. "I was in Dublin." "Voluntarily?" "I needed a change of air." A silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, filled only by the distant sizzle of the kitchen in the back and the murmur of a poker game on the other side of the bar. Rory looked down at the curry. It was ordinary. It was the mundane she had fled towards. But looking at Silas, the memory of the past felt like a fracture in the pavement she was walking on. "You were the one who told me to run," Silas said suddenly, his gaze dropping to the box in her hand. "Years ago. When you showed up at my door at two in the morning, soaking wet and refusing to go back to Brendan’s." He paused, his thumb tracing the rim of his own glass. "You asked if I had a ride to London. I told you to take the Tube, but I walked you to the station." Rory exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that felt like it cracked her ribs. "I didn't want to go to Cardiff." "I know." "But I didn't want you to get dragged into it, either." Rory’s voice dropped. "I knew what he was capable of." Silas snorted softly. "People rarely believe their friends about those things until it’s too late. They think they can love the crazy out of a person." "It took longer than I thought." "Life usually does." Rory lifted the glass to her lips. The whiskey burned, a sharp, clean heat that cut through the melancholy fog in her chest. She didn't drink often. Not anymore. Not since Evan took it away. But tonight, the liquid warmth was something she needed. "You've changed, Rory." The statement hung in the air, unasked but undeniable. It wasn't about the hair or the height, though he had noticed those too. It was the way her shoulders sat—hunched just a fraction, defensive even when she was sitting still. The way her eyes darted around the room, checking exits before anyone else noticed the people around them. "I had to," she said, not looking at him. "The old Rory wouldn't survive this city." "The old Rory had her father’s temper and her mother’s patience." Silas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice dropping an octave. "She was smart. But she had trust issues, too. She let people in too easy, didn't she?" Rory flinched. "Don't." "Stop me if you don't want to hear it." She remained silent, staring into the swirl of amber liquid. "She told me once she wanted to be a lawyer," Silas continued, his tone conversational, almost casual, but the gaze he directed at her was devastatingly sharp. "Save the world one petition at a time. I asked her why she wanted to take the weight of the world on her shoulders." He tilted his head, studying the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist that peeked out from the cuff of her jacket. "I told her she should just live in the moment. Be a kid for a bit longer." Rory’s hand curled into a fist under the table. "I was a kid, Silas. I was just a kid." "You’re still here." He gestured vaguely with his glass toward the back of the bar, toward the bookshelf that led to the private room. "There’s a life waiting for you up there. The spare room. The view. I could fix the door." "It's fine where I am." "Is it?" Silas fixed her with a hard look. "You’re living over a bar you barely remember, working double shifts on a bike in the rain because you’re terrified to go home. Terrified to sleep. Terrified that if you close your eyes, you’ll see him." Rory gripped the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white. The pulse in her temple hammered. She wanted to shout that she was fine, that she had her job, that she had her freedom. She wanted to tell him that leaving was the only choice she had ever made for herself. But as she looked at the ring on Silas’s finger—the symbol of a life she had never touched—and the maps on the walls that charted the borders of nations she had never crossed, the lie died in her throat. "You don't know anything about me anymore," she whispered. "I know that you’re hurting," Silas countered softly. "And I know that you’re brave. You ran from a monster and you didn't look back. That takes more courage than I ever had. But bravery isn't a shield, Rory. Sometimes it just means you get tired of standing in the rain." The delivery box rustled. Rory finally looked down at it. The curry had gone cold. The purpose of her visit, the excuse she had built, felt trivial in the face of this fragile, shattering moment. She pulled the box toward her, but instead of taking a burger, she pushed it to the side. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her keys, the metal jingling softly. She placed them on the table, right next to Silas’s whiskey glass. "I'm not moving in tonight," she said, her voice steady, her eyes finally meeting his. "But I won't be back tomorrow." "Rory—" "Not the apartment upstairs. I don't want it right now." She stood up, brushing the wrinkles from her jeans. "I’m going for a walk. Just for a bit." Silas didn't try to stop her. He simply looked at the keys, then back up at her. The tension in his shoulders seemed to dissolve, replaced by a rare, grandfatherly approval. "Good for you," he said. He raised his glass in a mock salute. "Go clear your head. The rain’s let up." Rory nodded, grabbing her bike helmet from the hook by the door. She paused at the threshold, the cool night air rushing in to meet her. "You're right about one thing," she said. "I'm tired." She pushed the door open, the bell chiming cheerfully behind her. She stepped out into the street, the lights of the city buzzing overhead, and began to walk away from the light, toward the dark, carrying the weight of her history like a backpack full of stones. It was heavy, but she was the one carrying it.