AI The clatter of pint glasses and an undercurrent of hushed conversations filled the air within The Raven’s Nest. Rory, her delivery uniform still clinging to her, slung a damp bag of takeout onto the worn counter. The scent of stale beer and something vaguely like lemon polish tickled her nose. She ran a hand through her already tousled black hair, the dampness from London’s perpetual drizzle clinging to strands around her ears. Silas, his usual grey-streaked auburn hair neatly combed, wiped down the bar with a practiced hand, his slight limp barely noticeable with each pivot.
“Rough night?” Silas’s voice was a low rumble, cutting through the din without effort.
Rory offered a tired smile. “Just another Tuesday. Couple of hangry students.” She peeled off her worn jacket, revealing a faded band t-shirt underneath. “Anything to drown out the existential dread?”
Silas chuckled, a dry sound like rustling leaves. He slid a dark ale across the polished oak. “Always. On the house.”
She gratefully accepted, the cool glass a welcome sensation against her palm. She took a long sip, the bitter hops a familiar comfort. The Raven’s Nest, with its walls adorned with forgotten maps and grainy photographs, always felt like a sanctuary from the relentless pace of the city. It was a place where time seemed to slow , where secrets could be whispered without fear of immediate dissemination.
Just as she settled onto a stool, a voice, impossibly familiar , sliced through the general hum. "Rory? Is that really you?"
Rory froze, the pint halfway to her lips. Slowly, she turned, her bright blue eyes widening in disbelief. Standing a few feet away, bathed in the low amber light of the bar, was a woman she hadn't truly seen in… how long?
Eva.
Eva, whose laugh used to echo in school corridors, whose presence always felt like sunshine . But this Eva was different. Her vibrant energy seemed… subdued. The familiar spark in her eyes, usually so quick to ignite, was banked . She wore a tailored grey suit, impeccably sharp, and her blonde hair, once a riotous cascade, was pulled back into a severe, low bun. There was a hardness about her now, a steely resolve in the set of her jaw. The carefree girl Rory remembered had been meticulously polished into something else entirely.
"Eva," Rory breathed, the name feeling foreign on her tongue . "God, it's been… ages."
Eva moved closer, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor. She offered a tight smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes . "Ages doesn’t even begin to cover it. What are you doing here? I thought you’d vanished off the face of the earth.”
Rory’s smile faltered. “Just… around. Working. You?”
“Business, mostly,” Eva replied, her gaze sweeping around the dimly lit interior . “Passing through London. Had a meeting nearby and decided to pop in for old times’ sake. Though, I have to admit, I didn’t expect to see you here.” She gestured with a manicured hand towards Rory’s takeaway bag. “Still delivering dodgy noodles?”
The jab, though delivered smoothly, landed with a dull thud. Rory felt a flush creep up her neck. She clutched her pint a little tighter. "Someone's got to . Keeps the lights on." She tried to inject levity into her voice, but it sounded brittle, even to her own ears. "What about you? Fancy lawyer now?"
Eva’s lips curved into a more genuine, albeit fleeting , smile. “Something like that. Property law, actually. It’s… lucrative.” She paused, her gaze lingering on Rory’s uniform. “You look… well, you look like you. Still got that wild streak, eh?”
“Just trying to survive,” Rory murmured, looking down at the dark liquid in her glass. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a relic from a scraped knee and sheer childish recklessness, felt suddenly prominent.
“Survival looks different on you than it does on me, I suppose.” Eva’s voice was quiet, almost contemplative. She turned to Silas, who had been watching the exchange with quiet amusement. “Silas, right? Rory’s mentioned you. And this place.”
Silas inclined his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his hazel eyes. “Rory’s been a good customer. And a good… friend to the establishment.” He gave Rory a knowing look.
“A friend to the establishment,” Eva echoed , a wry twist to her lips. “That sounds about right for Rory. Always finding her way into the most interesting places.” She turned back to Rory, her expression unreadable . “Remember that time we snuck into the old abandoned theatre downtown? You swore you saw a ghost.”
Rory’s breath hitched. That felt like a lifetime ago . The memory of their shared mischief, the thrill of trespassing, the innocent terror and laughter, flooded her. She’d been so lost after leaving Evan, after leaving Cardiff, and Eva had been her anchor then, her conduit to a new life in London. Rory had fled, the weight of her father’s expectations and her ex’s cruelty pressing down on her, and Eva, already established in the city, had offered a lifeline. Now, though, that lifeline felt like a gossamer thread, stretched thin by years of silence and differing paths.
“I remember,” Rory said, her voice barely a whisper . “You said I was imagining things.”
“Because you always did have an overactive imagination,” Eva replied, but the sharpness was gone, replaced by a touch of melancholy . She toyed with the intricate clasp of her handbag. “Some things don’t change, I guess. Though… London changes you. It certainly changed me.” Her gaze drifted, unfocused, towards the darkened corners of the bar. "It made me… practical."
Rory watched her, a knot tightening in her chest. The unspoken words hung heavy in the air between them, a silent accusation of what was lost, what was never recovered. The wild spark Eva spoke of felt like a dying ember, and Rory suspected the same was true for Eva. They had been two ships passing in the night, their lights once blazing in tandem, and then diverging, each charting a course through different storms.
“Practicality has its place,” Rory managed, trying to sound casual, but the words felt inadequate .
Eva finally met Rory’s gaze, and for a brief moment, the hard edges softened. “Does it? Sometimes I wonder if practicality just means you’ve given up on the things that truly matter. The things that used to make us feel alive.” She gestured vaguely with her hand, encompassing the bar, the night, their shared past. “This wasn't exactly the life I envisioned for myself back then. Or for you, for that matter.”
A pang of a familiar regret, sharp and unexpected, pierced Rory. She remembered Lily , their fourth friend from school, the one who had dreamed of travel and adventure, the one who had disappeared after graduation, leaving only whispers and unanswered letters. Had Eva’s ‘implacable practicality’ also stamped out that spirit?
“Life happens, Eva,” Rory said, the phrase a tired echo of countless other conversations where the real truth had been smoothed over with the balm of inevitability.
“Yes,” Eva agreed softly, her gaze dropping to her perfectly polished shoes . “It does. And some of us become very good at letting it happen *to * us, rather than making it *for * us.” She picked up her small clutch bag. “Well, I should go. I have an early flight tomorrow.” She extended a hand, not for a handshake, but for a brief, almost formal, touch on Rory’s arm . “It was… surprisingly nice to see you, Rory. You haven't changed a bit.”
The words, meant as a compliment, felt like a condemnation . Rory watched Eva walk away, the click of her heels receding into the general din, leaving Rory alone with her dark ale and the ghosts of shared laughter. Silas was polishing glasses nearby, his face impassive, yet Rory could swear she saw a hint of understanding in the depths of his amber eyes. He knew. He always knew. The Raven’s Nest, a haven for lost souls and clandestine dealings, was a place that collected stories, and perhaps, even collected regrets.