AI The Raven’s Nest smelled of old wood, spilled ale, and the faint, sweet ghost of cigar smoke. Aurora Carter wiped a damp cloth over the polished mahogany, her movements economical, her mind a thousand miles from the quiet hum of the late afternoon bar. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly, aquatic glow through the front window, painting shifting patterns on the floorboards. Silas was in the back, the soft clink of glassware and his slight limp a familiar rhythm against the silence .
The door swung open, slicing through the dimness with a wedge of grey London light. A man stepped in, shaking rain from a dark overcoat. He hesitated, letting his eyes adjust, and then he saw her.
Aurora looked up, the cloth stilling in her hand. The air left the room.
“Laila?”
The name was a ghost, a whisper from a life she’d bricked up and buried. She hadn’t been called that in years. Not since Cardiff. Not since before Evan.
He stepped further into the light, and the years fell away, only to rush back with a crushing weight . It was Rhys. Rhys with the easy laugh who’d shared her textbooks in the library, who’d teased her about her pre-law ambitions, who’d been her friend before everything got complicated. But it wasn’t him, not really . The boy was gone, replaced by a man with lines around his eyes and a stillness where there had once been constant, kinetic energy.
“Rhys.” Her voice was flat, a statement of fact. She didn’t move from behind the bar, a solid, familiar barrier between them.
He approached slowly, as if she were a skittish animal. “My God. I heard you’d moved to London, but I never…” He trailed off, his gaze taking in the bar, the shelves of bottles, her, in her simple black t-shirt with a damp cloth in her hand. “You work here?”
“I do.” She finally moved, tossing the cloth into a sink beneath the counter. “What can I get you?”
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “A pint, I suppose. Whatever’s on tap.” He slid onto a stool, his movements careful. He was still staring. “You look… different.”
“It’s been five years,” she said, pulling the tap . The amber liquid foamed into the glass. “People change.”
“You cut your hair.” His voice was soft, almost mournful.
Her hand went instinctively to the ends of her black hair, now sharp and straight at her shoulders. It used to tumble down her back, a wild, dark curtain Evan had always insisted she keep long. She pushed the pint across the bar to him. “Easier to manage.”
He took a long drink, then set the glass down with a firm click. “I looked for you. After. Your mum wouldn’t say anything. Your dad just said you’d gone. No one knew where.”
“I know.” She busied herself rearranging clean glasses, their clinking the only sound for a long moment. “I needed to go.”
“We were worried, Laila. Me, Tomo, Cerys. We were your friends. We could have helped.”
The name was a small, sharp knife. “It’s Rory. Aurora. No one calls me Laila anymore.”
He flinched, just slightly . “Right. Sorry. Rory.” He tested the name, unfamiliar on his tongue. “So this is it? This is the life? Pulling pints in a Soho pub?”
“It pays the rent. The flat’s upstairs.” She leaned against the back counter, arms crossed. “What about you? Still in Cardiff?”
“Solicitor’s office. Family law, mostly. It’s… fine.” He swirled the beer in his glass. “It’s not arguing constitutional theory in the library, but it’s fine .”
The memory was a physical ache. The two of them, surrounded by heavy legal tomes, debating late into the night, the future a bright, certain thing stretched out before them. She’d been destined for the bar. He’d been destined to be by her side, her sharpest rival and her closest friend.
“You were the smartest of all of us,” he said, echoing her thoughts. “You were going to change the world, not hide from it.”
“The world changed me first.” The words came out harder than she intended.
He looked down at his hands, at the wedding band she’d been trying not to notice. “I heard about Evan. What he did. I’m… God, Rory, I’m so sorry. If I’d known how bad it was—”
“You didn’t.” She cut him off, her voice leaving no room for his guilt. It was hers to carry, not his. “No one did. I made sure of that.”
“That’s not how friendship works! You don’t just disappear. You don’t just become a different person and expect everyone to understand.” The frustration broke through his careful composure. “We were there. We were right there.”
“And what would you have done, Rhys?” She uncrossed her arms, planting her palms on the bar. The small crescent scar on her wrist seemed to pulse under the neon light. “Given him a strongly worded letter from your solicitor’s office? He wasn’t a case file. He was my life. He was in my head, in my phone, in every corner of that city. The only way out was to burn it all down and leave.”
He was silent, absorbing the heat of her words. The rain picked up again, drumming a steady rhythm against the window.
“You could have called,” he said, his voice quieter now . “One phone call.”
“To say what? That I was broken? That the person you all knew was gone ? It was easier to let that Laila just… vanish. Clean break.”
“It wasn’t clean for us.” He finished his beer. “We mourned you.”
The confession hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. She saw it then, the weight he carried too. It wasn’t just her regret. It was his. The friend who felt he’d failed. The one left behind.
From the back room, the sound of Silas’s limp grew louder as he approached. He emerged, a crate of limes in his arms, his sharp hazel eyes missing nothing. He gave a brief, neutral nod to Rhys, a silent question to Rory. She shook her head, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion. *I’m fine.* He retreated, leaving the silence to settle back over them.
“He seems… protective,” Rhys observed.
“He’s my boss.” The lie was automatic, a defence mechanism worn smooth from use.
Rhys looked at her, really looked at her, past the short hair and the bartender’s clothes. He saw the new sharpness in her bright blue eyes, the wariness in her posture, the cool, impenetrable calm that had replaced her fiery passion.
“You’re happy here?” he asked, and it sounded like a real question, not an accusation.
She considered it. The peace of the empty bar. The solid presence of Silas in the next room. The simple, uncomplicated act of wiping a counter clean. “I’m safe here. That’s better than happy.”
He nodded slowly , accepting the distinction. He pulled out his wallet, left a ten-pound note on the bar. “I should go. I’m meeting my wife for dinner.” He stood up, pulling his coat back on.
“Rhys.” The word stopped him as he turned. She didn’t know what to say. *I’m sorry I left you to mourn. I’m sorry I’m not the person you remember. I’m sorry the world isn’t what we thought it would be.*
He seemed to understand. He offered a small, sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It was good to see you, Rory. Truly.”
He walked out into the rain, the door swinging shut behind him, sealing the bar back into its dim, quiet world. Aurora picked up the ten-pound note, its edges crisp and cold. She folded it neatly, once, then twice, and slipped it into the till. She picked up her damp cloth and went back to wiping the already-clean bar, erasing the faint circle his glass had left on the wood, working until there was no trace he had ever been there at all.