Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYNED6NK420A5HQ9YMQXKW

The old record player in the corner spun a low, mournful jazz tune, the needle’s hiss a comfortable counterpoint to the gentle clink of glasses. Aurora Carter ran a soft cloth over the polished mahogany of the bar top, her movements rhythmic and sure. Light from the green neon sign above the door bled through the frosted glass, painting the worn floorboards in an ethereal glow. It was a slow Tuesday at The Raven’s Nest. Most of the regulars were tucked into their usual booths, lost in quiet conversation. Silas Blackwood sat at the far end of the bar, poring over invoices, the silver of his signet ring catching the dim light as he turned a page. He was a mountain of quiet presence, a permanent fixture in her London life. The bell above the door chimed, a sharp, metallic sound that sliced through the bar's warm hum. A man stepped inside, shaking the damp from a dark wool coat. He was tall, and the suit he wore looked expensive, though it was rumpled from a long day. He moved with a kind of weary purpose, settling onto a stool at the opposite end of the bar from Silas, directly in front of her. He kept his eyes down, staring into the wood grain as if it held some profound answer. His hair, once a thick, unruly brown, was now shorter, tamed, with threads of silver at the temples. "A double Laphroaig. Neat." The voice hit her first. A low rumble, the edges softened by a familiar Cardiff lilt she had not heard in years. It was a ghost in the machine, a sound she thought she had successfully exorcised. Her hand stilled on the bar. She kept her own eyes down, focusing on the selection of single malts, her black hair falling forward to veil her face. She reached for the distinctive green bottle, her movements suddenly deliberate, a little too precise. The amber liquid swirled into the glass, the peaty scent sharp in the air. She slid the tumbler across the bar, the glass whispering against the polished wood. She did not look up. He placed a few notes on the counter. "Thanks." A pause stretched, thick and heavy. "My God. Aurora?" She finally lifted her head. Her bright blue eyes, cool and guarded, met his. The face was older, etched with lines of fatigue she did not recognise, but it was him. Evan. The shape of his mouth, the way his brow furrowed. A past she had buried under the cobblestones of a new city. "It's Rory now." Her voice was a flat stone skipping over a frozen lake. Recognition warred with disbelief on his face. "Rory. Right. Of course." He picked up his glass, his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly. "What are you doing here? I thought you were… well, I didn't know *what* to think." "I work here." She folded the cloth in her hands, a small, repetitive motion. The barrier of the bar felt a thousand miles wide. "What brings you to London, Evan?" "A conference. Finance." He took a long swallow of the whisky, his throat working. The fire of the drink seemed to do nothing to warm him. "You know, the usual soul-crushing nonsense. It pays the bills." He gestured vaguely with the glass. "This is a long way from Pre-Law at Cardiff." "I needed a change of scenery." "A change of scenery," he repeated, the words hollow. "Is that what they called it? You just vanished. Eva wouldn't say a word. Your parents…" He trailed off, looking down into his drink. "I guess I can't blame them." Down the bar, Silas shifted his weight, the leg of his stool scraping softly against the floor. He wasn’t looking at them, but Rory felt the weight of his attention, a silent, comforting anchor. "They knew I was safe," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You look good, Rory. Different." His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her hands resting on the bar. They fell on her left wrist, on the small, pale crescent of a scar just visible below the cuff of her sleeve. A shadow passed over his features, a flinch of memory so profound it was almost a physical blow. He looked away, back at the wall of bottles behind her. The silence thickened, filled with the ghosts of shouted words and slammed doors. "London suits you," he finally managed, his voice thin. "You seem… harder." "Stronger." The correction was quiet but absolute. He gave a dry, humourless laugh. "Yeah, that too." He drained his glass, the ice clinking against the bottom with a lonely finality. "Another?" She took the glass without a word and refilled it. Her movements were economical, detached. She was a different person from the girl who used to shrink under his gaze, the girl whose world had narrowed to the four walls of his temper. This place, this city, Silas—they had reforged her. As she placed the fresh drink before him, his fingers brushed against hers. She recoiled. It was a tiny, involuntary flinch, a bare whisper of a movement, but in the echoing silence between them, it was a gunshot. His hand fell back as if burned. The veneer of polite reunion shattered. "I still think about it," he said, his voice barely audible over the saxophone on the record player. "What I did. The person I was." Rory picked up her cloth and began wiping down a clean section of the bar. "We all have things we'd rather forget." "I don't want to forget." His gaze was intense now, stripped of all pretence. "Forgetting would be too easy. I have to live with it. I just… I hoped you were okay. That you'd found something good." "I have." Her chin lifted, a gesture of defiance. Her eyes flickered towards Silas, who now stood, his limp more pronounced as he began collecting empty glasses from a nearby table. He moved with a quiet authority that filled the space. Evan followed her gaze to the older man with the grey-streaked auburn hair. A flicker of understanding, or perhaps misunderstanding, crossed his face. He turned back to her, his expression grim. "I was an idiot back then, Rory. A monster." Aurora stopped wiping the bar. She placed the cloth down with unnerving stillness and met his desperate, pleading eyes. The scent of whisky and old regrets hung between them like a shroud. "People don't change, Evan." Her voice was soft, but each word was a perfectly sharpened shard of glass. "They just get better at hiding it."