Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPXQKMJDKTVSEPBST89W4R

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter that rose and fell like a tide. Rory wiped her hands on her apron, balancing a tray of empty pint glasses against her hip as she weaved through the crowd. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow over the faces of the patrons, turning them into shifting silhouettes of gold and shadow. She didn’t see him at first. Then the crowd parted, just for a second, and there he was—leaning against the bar, one elbow propped on the polished wood, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. His auburn hair was streaked with more grey than she remembered, his beard neatly trimmed but threaded with silver. The signet ring on his right hand caught the light as he lifted his glass, slow and deliberate. Silas. Her breath hitched. The tray tilted in her grip. He turned his head, as if sensing the weight of her stare. Hazel eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The noise of the bar faded into a dull roar, the way it did when you were underwater. Then he smiled. Not the easy, familiar grin she remembered, but something tighter, edged with something she couldn’t name. “Rory Carter,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Look at you.” She set the tray down with a clatter. “Silas Blackwood. Still haunting this place, I see.” “Someone’s got to keep the lights on.” He gestured to the stool beside him. “Sit. Unless you’re too busy playing delivery girl.” She bristled. “I’m not *playing* at anything.” His eyebrows lifted, just a fraction. “No? Then what do you call it?” She opened her mouth, then shut it. The old Rory would’ve snapped back, would’ve matched his tone with something sharp and cutting. But the old Rory wasn’t here anymore. Neither was the old Silas, apparently. She slid onto the stool. “I call it paying rent.” He studied her for a long moment, then pushed his glass toward her. “Drink?” She hesitated, then took it. The whiskey burned going down, but she didn’t flinch. “You look different.” “So do you.” His gaze flicked to the crescent scar on her wrist before meeting her eyes again. “London suits you.” “Does it?” She swirled the whiskey in the glass. “I didn’t think you’d notice.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I notice plenty.” The air between them thickened, charged with all the things they weren’t saying. The last time they’d seen each other, she’d been eighteen, fresh out of Cardiff, wide-eyed and full of fire. He’d been the one to tell her to go, to take Eva’s offer and run. *Don’t look back*, he’d said. And she hadn’t. Until now. “How’s the knee?” she asked, nodding at his left leg. He shrugged. “Still limps when it rains.” “And the rest of you?” His fingers tightened around his glass. “Still here.” She exhaled through her nose. “That’s not what I meant.” “I know what you meant.” He leaned forward, just enough that she could see the lines around his eyes, the ones that hadn’t been there before. “You want to know if I’m still the same man who told you to leave. If I regret it.” Her pulse jumped. “Do you?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he signaled the bartender for another drink. When it arrived, he took a slow sip, then set the glass down with careful precision. “Regret’s a heavy word,” he said finally. “I don’t waste time on things I can’t change.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” he agreed. “But it’s the only one you’re getting.” She wanted to press him, to dig until he gave her something real. But the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched—she knew that look. He wasn’t going to break. She changed tack. “You ever hear from Eva?” His expression shuttered. “Not in years.” “Me neither.” She traced the rim of her glass. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? People just… disappear.” “Not funny,” he said quietly. “Just life.” The weight of it settled between them, heavy and unspoken. She thought of all the nights she’d lain awake, wondering if she’d made the right choices. If she’d left too much behind. Silas reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar toward her. “Found this in the back room a few weeks ago. Thought you might want it.” She unfolded it carefully. It was a photograph—her and Eva, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning like idiots in front of the Nest. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Her hair was shorter then, her smile brighter. She ran her thumb over the crease in the photo. “Where’d you get this?” “You left it behind.” His voice was rough. “When you left.” She swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d keep it.” “I didn’t think you’d come back.” She looked up at him, really looked at him. The grey in his hair, the lines on his face, the way his hands—once steady and sure—now trembled just slightly around his glass. “Neither did I,” she admitted. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The bar hummed around them, alive and indifferent. Somewhere in the distance, a glass shattered. Rory folded the photo and tucked it into her pocket. Silas watched her, his hazel eyes unreadable. She stood. “I should get back to work.” He nodded, once. “Of course.” She hesitated, just for a second. Then she turned and walked away, the weight of his gaze on her back the whole time.