Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY10X0C7678M2FMBNK5SG0

The final dregs of the evening crowd had thinned, leaving behind the comforting ghosts of stale beer and rain-soaked jackets. Aurora Carter, known to everyone here only as Rory, ran a dry cloth over the polished mahogany of the bar top, her movements a familiar, soothing rhythm. The low hum of the coolers was a constant companion, broken only by the occasional clink of glass as Silas Blackwood stacked clean tumblers behind her. The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest cast an emerald wash over the wet Soho pavement outside, bathing the room in a soft, aquatic light. This was her sanctuary. A quiet port in a storm she had long since navigated. The heavy oak door swung open, letting in a gust of damp night air and a man who did not belong. He paused on the threshold, his shoulders squared in a suit that cost more than her first month's rent. The charcoal wool was tailored to perfection, uncreased despite the London drizzle. He scanned the dimly lit room, his gaze sweeping over the old maps and faded photographs on the walls before it landed on the bar. Landed on her. Rory’s hand stilled, the cloth limp in her grip. Recognition was a slow, cold flood, seeping into the warmth of the quiet bar. The face was older, the boyish roundness of his cheeks planed away into sharp angles, but the eyes were the same. A shade of blue so pale it was almost grey. He took a hesitant step forward, his expensive shoes silent on the worn floorboards. “Aurora?” The name felt like a costume she had shed years ago. It hung in the air between them, alien and ill-fitting. Her knuckles whitened around the polishing cloth. Silas, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, paused his work, his hazel eyes watchful from the far end of the bar. The man closed the distance, his expression a tangled knot of disbelief and uncertainty. “Aurora Carter. It is you. My God, I thought I was seeing things.” “Hello, Liam.” Her voice was steady, betraying none of the sudden lurch in her stomach. He slid onto the stool opposite her, placing a leather briefcase on the floor. He looked her over, from the faded band t-shirt to the simple silver stud in her ear. A flicker of confusion crossed his face. “What are you doing here? I mean—in London, working in a bar?” “I live here. Above the bar, actually.” She gestured vaguely towards the ceiling. “And it’s just Rory now.” “Rory.” He tried the name out, as if tasting a foreign word. “Right. Rory.” A silence stretched, thin and taut. He drummed his fingers on the bar top, a nervous, staccato rhythm. “So. Can I get a drink?” She nodded, her movements stiff as she reached for a glass. “What can I get you?” “Whisky. Macallan, if you have it. Neat.” Of course. The same drink he used to order at the student union pub, pretending to be more sophisticated than the rest of them with their pints of lager. She retrieved the bottle, the amber liquid catching the low light. Her hand was perfectly still as she poured, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist a faint white line against her skin. She slid the glass across the bar. His fingers brushed hers as he took it. The contact was electric, a jolt of a life she had buried. He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving her face. “Last I heard, you were top of your class. Pre-Law scholarship. Everyone at Cardiff said you were going to be a QC before you were forty.” Rory offered a small, empty smile and went back to polishing a different section of the bar. “Plans change.” “That’s one way of putting it.” He swirled the whisky in his glass, the ice-pale blue of his eyes troubled. “You just… vanished. One day you were there, the next, your flat was empty. Eva wouldn’t say a word.” She looked up from her work, meeting his gaze directly for the first time. The bright blue of her own eyes was cool, unreadable. “There wasn’t much to say.” “Wasn’t there?” The question was quiet, but it landed with the weight of an accusation. “Aurora—Rory. We were worried. I was worried.” “You had a funny way of showing it.” The words were out before she could stop them, sharper than she intended. Liam flinched. He looked down into his glass, at the distorted reflection of the man he had become. “I know. I should have… done more. We all should have.” He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the near-silent room. “Heard you broke it off with Evan.” There it was. The name that was a key to a locked room she never intended to visit again. She neither confirmed nor denied it, simply picked up another glass and began to wipe it down with methodical precision. He took her silence as his answer. “Good. He was a piece of work. None of us liked him.” “You were his friend.” The statement was flat, devoid of emotion. “We were on the same rugby team. That’s not the same thing.” Liam’s voice was suddenly defensive. “Look, I heard he got rough at the end. I should have called. I was going to, a dozen times, but I didn’t know what to say.” “What would you have said, Liam?” She set the glass down with a soft, definitive click. The question was not a challenge, but a genuine inquiry. It made him pause, his mouth half-open. He had no answer. He just shook his head, staring at the bar as if it held the right words. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” The apology was five years too late and a world away. It felt hollow, a coin dropped into a well so deep you never hear it hit the water. “I’m in the city for a merger,” he said, changing the subject with a clumsy haste. “Junior partner at a firm in Cardiff. The one my dad wanted me to join.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Living the dream, right?” “Congratulations.” Rory’s tone was neutral, polite. She felt a profound disconnect, as if she were watching a film about two strangers. The ambitious, driven girl he remembered was a ghost. She could barely recall what it felt like to be her. That person’s dreams felt like they belonged to someone else entirely. “It’s not… you’re different.” He finally said it, the observation he’d been circling since he walked in. “You were always so… fiery. So certain about everything. Now…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at her, at the quiet bar, at the life he couldn’t comprehend for her. “I got tired of being certain.” She stacked the glass she’d been cleaning with the others, the simple, physical task a welcome anchor. “Certainty gets you into trouble.” From the end of the bar, Silas began quietly clearing the last of the empty tables, his slight limp more pronounced as the night wore on. He moved with a silent economy, a grey-streaked guardian in the periphery. Liam drained his glass, the sound of it hitting the wood a sharp crack in the quiet. He reached for his wallet, but Rory shook her head. “It’s on the house. For old times’ sake.” The phrase felt absurd. There was nothing left of the old times but this awkward, painful space between them. He hesitated, then pulled his hand back, leaving the wallet on the bar. “I’m at The Savoy, just for a couple of nights.” He pushed a business card across the bar. The embossing was crisp and formal. “We could get dinner. Catch up properly.” Rory looked at the card, at the neat, black lettering spelling out a life she had actively run from. Liam Davies, Esq. She made no move to pick it up. “I don’t think we have that much to catch up on.”