Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYWRF3ZBQJWZHF20JC09PA

The Raven's Nest hummed with its usual evening crowd—locals nursing pints, tourists snapping photos of the vintage maps, and Silas wiping down glasses behind the bar with methodical precision. Aurora pushed through the heavy door, shaking rain from her delivery jacket, the distinctive green neon from the sign outside casting shadows across her face. "Kitchen's through the back," Silas called without looking up. "Tell Yu-Fei I'm still waiting on those spring rolls." "Not a delivery tonight." Aurora slid onto a barstool, water dripping from her black hair onto the worn wood. "Just need something strong." Silas glanced up, taking in her soaked appearance and the tension in her shoulders. He reached for a bottle of whiskey without asking, pouring two fingers neat. "Rough day?" "Rough year." She knocked back half the glass, grimacing. The burn felt good, something real to focus on instead of the churning in her gut. Behind her, the door chimed again. Aurora didn't turn—she'd learned not to look over her shoulder constantly anymore, though the habit died hard. But then a voice cut through the bar's ambient noise, and her glass froze halfway to her lips. "Christ, this place hasn't changed a bit." The Welsh accent hit her like a physical blow. Aurora's fingers tightened on the glass as footsteps approached the bar. In the mirror behind the bottles, she watched a woman with copper hair and designer clothes claim the stool two seats down. "Gin and tonic," the woman told Silas, then froze. "Rory?" Aurora forced herself to turn, meeting Eva's wide green eyes for the first time in three years. "Hello, Eva." "My God." Eva's hand flew to her mouth. "I heard you'd left Cardiff, but London? And you're..." Her gaze swept over Aurora's delivery jacket, the water stains, the exhaustion etched in her face. "What are you doing here?" "Working." Aurora turned back to her whiskey. "Living." Silas, with the instincts of someone who'd spent decades reading rooms, moved to the far end of the bar. "Working as what?" Eva's voice carried that old familiar mix of concern and judgment. "Last I heard, you were finishing your law degree. Your dad said—" "My dad says a lot of things." Aurora's laugh came out harsh. "Doesn't make them true." Eva shifted on her stool, her Louboutin heels clicking against the brass footrest. Everything about her screamed success—the tailored suit, the subtle highlights in her hair, the confidence that money and position brought. Aurora remembered when they'd been equals, two girls from the same Cardiff neighborhood with big dreams. "I tried calling," Eva said quietly. "After you left. Your number was disconnected." "New phone." Aurora signaled Silas for another pour. "New everything." "Even your name? The bartender called you Aurora. Since when do you go by your full name?" "Since Rory belonged to someone I'm not anymore." Eva ordered her gin and tonic when Silas returned, her movements precise and controlled. Aurora recognized the lawyer in her now—the way she gathered information, filed it away, built her case. "How long have you been in London?" "Two and a half years." "That long?" Eva's voice cracked slightly. "Rory—Aurora—we were best friends. How could you just disappear?" Aurora spun the glass between her palms, watching the amber liquid catch the bar's dim lighting. "You know why I left." "Evan." Eva said the name like it tasted bitter. "I told you to leave him, not vanish entirely." "One required the other." "Did it? Or did you just decide it was easier to run from everything?" The accusation hung between them like a blade. Aurora felt her jaw clench, the familiar anger rising. But underneath it, something else—the hollow ache of a friendship that had once meant everything. "Easy?" She turned to face Eva fully, noting the slight flinch in her old friend's expression. "You think any of this has been easy?" "I wouldn't know, would I? You shut me out. Shut everyone out." "I survived." Aurora's voice dropped low. "That's all I could manage." Eva's face softened, and for a moment, Aurora saw the girl she'd known—the one who'd snuck bottles of cheap wine into their dorm room, who'd held her hair back after too many shots, who'd been the first person she'd called when the bruises started. "I would have helped. You know that." "I know." Aurora turned back to her drink. "That's why I couldn't stay." They sat in silence, the bar's noise washing over them. Someone fed coins into the old jukebox, and Dusty Springfield's voice drifted through the speakers. Eva fidgeted with her engagement ring—a massive diamond Aurora hadn't noticed before. "You're engaged." "Last spring." Eva held out her hand, the stone catching the light. "To Richard Pemberton. He's a barrister at—" "Your firm. I remember him." Aurora had met him once at a Cardiff legal society mixer. Ambitious, well-connected, everything a girl like Eva should want. "Congratulations." "We're having the wedding at St. David's Hall. Small ceremony, just family and close friends." Eva paused. "I wanted to invite you, but..." "But I was gone." "You were gone." Eva's voice carried years of hurt. "Do you have any idea what it was like? You just vanished. Your parents didn't know where you were. I spent months wondering if you were even alive." Aurora flinched. She'd known leaving would hurt people, but hearing it laid out so starkly made her chest tight. "I sent a letter. Told them I was safe." "One letter. In three years." Eva's hands clenched around her glass. "I deserved better than that." She had. Aurora knew it, had known it even as she'd deleted Eva's number, ignored her emails, built walls between her new life and everything Cardiff represented. "You did." The admission scraped her throat raw. "But I couldn't—Eva, I couldn't be that person anymore. The one who needed rescuing, who made terrible choices, who stayed too long and believed too many lies. I had to burn it all down and start over." "And I was just collateral damage?" Aurora met her eyes in the mirror. "We all were." Eva finished her drink in one swallow, then stood. Her movements were sharp, controlled fury. "You know what the worst part is? I get it. I understand why you ran, why you changed everything. But understanding doesn't make it hurt less." She pulled out a business card, expensive cardstock with embossed lettering, and placed it on the bar. "In case you ever remember how to be someone's friend again." Aurora didn't pick it up, didn't move as Eva's heels clicked across the floor. At the door, her old friend paused. "You look tired, Ror—Aurora. Tired and sad. I hope whatever you're running towards is worth what you left behind." The door swung shut, taking the moment with it. Aurora stared at the business card, Eva's name in elegant script, a London address, a life she might have had if she'd made different choices. Silas appeared, refilling her glass without being asked. "Old friend?" "The oldest." Aurora pocketed the card, though she knew she'd never use it. Some bridges, once burned, couldn't be rebuilt. They just left you standing on opposite shores, remembering when the distance between you could be crossed. The whiskey burned less on the third glass. Or maybe she'd just gone numb to everything, the way she'd taught herself to be. Either way, she sat in The Raven's Nest, listening to the rain against the windows and the ghosts of who she used to be, until Silas finally called last orders and the night swallowed her whole.