Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYWY40YQHHMMH9JF9A23QN

The green glow of the neon sign outside bled through the grime-smeared window, painting the bar in shades of sickly envy. Rory sat hunched over a glass of melting ice, the condensation a cold sweat on her knuckles. She knew the geography of this place better than her own flat upstairs. The way the dark wood of the bar was worn smooth by a million elbows, the faint smell of stale beer and lemon polish, the low murmur of conversation that never quite rose above a whisper. It was a place for hiding. She felt the shift in air pressure before she heard him. The familiar, uneven rhythm of a gait that favoured the right leg. A shadow fell across the sticky surface of the bar, eclipsing her glass. “Rory.” His voice was a low rumble, unchanged by the years. It scraped against something raw inside her. She didn’t look up. “Silas.” He rested his hands on the bar, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the weak light. It was a heavy, old-fashioned thing, stamped with a crest she’d never bothered to ask about. His knuckles were thick, the skin weathered. “I didn’t know you were back in town.” He slid onto the stool next to her, the movement fluid despite the old injury in his knee. He smelled of cedar and something else, something metallic and clean that she associated with his past. “Just got back.” “From Cardiff?” “No.” She finally lifted her head, meeting his gaze in the mirror behind the bar. His hazel eyes were the same, watchful and knowing. They saw too much. “From somewhere else.” He nodded slowly, a gesture that held more weight than a simple agreement. He signalled to the bartender, a young man with a face full of piercings who barely glanced their way. “A whisky for me. And another… whatever she’s having.” “I’m fine with this.” “The ice is melted.” “It’s water now.” He let that hang in the air between them, a small, pointless victory in a war she hadn’t known they were fighting. The bartender placed a glass of amber liquid in front of Silas and slid a fresh Coke towards Rory. The fizz of the carbonation was a sharp, angry sound. “You look well.” He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving her reflection. “Liar.” The word was out before she could stop it. She saw a flicker of something in his eyes, not surprise, but acknowledgement. “I’m not lying, Aurora. You look… settled.” The use of her full name was a deliberate choice. A weapon. It was the name on her birth certificate, the name her father used when he was disappointed in her. It was the name of the girl who got A-levels and had a place at Cardiff University to read Pre-Law. That girl was a ghost. “I’m a delivery driver, Silas. I bring people noodles and spring rolls. ‘Settled’ isn’t the word I’d use.” “It’s a living.” “It’s a way to pay the rent on the flat you own.” She regretted the words instantly. They were too sharp, too revealing. They showed the chip on her shoulder, the debt she felt she could never repay. He didn’t flinch. He just swirled the whisky in his glass, watching the liquid climb the sides. “I always liked having you around. Even when you were a teenager, sneaking in here to read books far too old for you.” “I wasn’t sneaking. You let me in.” “Did I?” A faint smile touched his lips, barely there. “Or did I just forget to lock the door sometimes?” She looked away from the mirror, down at her own hands. Her left wrist, the small crescent-shaped scar a pale white against her skin. She traced it with her thumb, a nervous habit she couldn’t break. The silence stretched, filled by the clink of glasses from the other end of the bar and the soulless thud of music from the speakers. “Your father asks about you.” Rory’s hand stilled. “I doubt that.” “He does. He’s proud of you. Thinks you’re in London, making your way.” “He thinks I’m a solicitor’s apprentice, living in a nice flat in Kensington.” She voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Let him keep thinking it. It’s a nicer story.” “And what’s the real story, Laila?” The old nickname, a whispered secret from years ago, hit her like a physical blow. It was the name Eva used to call her, the name Silas used when he was teaching her how to read a map or pick a lock. It belonged to a different life, a different person. A person who didn’t have a fresh set of bruises hidden under her sleeves. A person who still believed in futures. “Don’t.” Her voice was low, a warning. “Don’t call me that.” “Why not?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to match hers. “That’s who you are.” “No.” She shook her head, a sharp, jerky motion. “That’s who I was. You don’t get to just… reach back in time and pull her out. It doesn’t work like that.” He watched her, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t judging her, she knew that. It was worse. He was mourning her. He was mourning the girl he thought he knew, the girl with the bright future and the sharp mind, and he couldn’t see the woman sitting in front of him. The one who had survived. “I remember when you got that scar.” He gestured with his chin towards her wrist. “Fell out of that old oak tree in Bute Park. You were trying to get a better look at a hawk’s nest.” “I was eight.” She pulled her sleeve down, covering the pale line. “And I was stupid.” “You were fearless.” “And look where it got me.” The bitterness in her own voice surprised her. It tasted like acid. “Fearful is better. Fearful is safer.” Silas finished his whisky in one smooth motion and placed the glass back on the bar with a soft click. The silver ring was a dull gleam under the dim lights. “Is it, though?” he asked, his voice quiet again. “Is it safer to live in a cage of your own making?” She didn’t have an answer. She stared at the bubbles rising and popping in her glass, each one a tiny, silent scream. The weight of the years, of the choices made and unmade, settled between them, a physical presence in the stale air of the bar. He was a map of a past she couldn’t return to, and she was a destination he’d never wanted to see.