Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NBWNHS682MVYF9VKYGNM

Rain lashed against the windows of The Raven’s Nest, blurring the neon green sign into a smeared emerald glow. Rory wiped condensation from a pint glass, the chill seeping into her fingertips. Another slow Tuesday. Silas nursed a whiskey at the far end of the bar, a silent sentinel amidst the gloom. His grey-streaked auburn hair seemed a shade darker than she remembered, and the limp in his left leg was more pronounced. Time, she thought, had a way of etching itself onto people. The bell above the door chimed, a jarring sound against the low thrum of jazz music. A figure shook rain from a tailored coat, a flash of crimson against the muted tones of the bar. Rory glanced up, expecting a regular. Instead, she saw Liam. Liam Hayes. Her breath hitched. It couldn't be. Years. A decade, maybe more. He hadn’t changed as much as she’d predicted. Still tall, still broad-shouldered, still with that infuriatingly charming smile playing on his lips. But the boyishness, the carefree spark she’d known, was gone. Replaced by a controlled intensity that felt… foreign. His eyes, once the warm brown of autumn leaves, now held a glacial stillness. He scanned the room, his gaze settling on her. A flicker of something – recognition? Surprise? – crossed his face before settling into a polite, almost impersonal expression. He made his way toward the bar, his movements possessing a quiet confidence she didn’t recall. "Rory?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, deeper than she remembered. She swallowed, setting the pint glass down. "Liam. Wow. I... I didn't think I’d ever see you again.” He chuckled, a short, dry sound. "Small world, isn’t it?" He signaled to Silas who simply nodded without a word before heading to the back. "Whiskey, neat." He turned back to Rory, his eyes assessing. "You look good." That was it. Just "You look good." No "It's been too long," no “How are you?” Just a detached observation. A professional assessment. “You too,” she managed, feeling absurdly flustered. Silas returned with Liam’s drink and set it before him. He shot Rory a look, his hazel eyes betraying a hint of curiosity. Liam ignored him, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “What are you doing here?” Rory blurted out, the question sharper than she intended. He raised an eyebrow. “Enjoying a drink. Same as you, I presume.” “No, I mean… I haven’t seen you since... Cardiff University.” The memory of late-night study sessions fueled by cheap pizza and endless debates about literature felt like a faded photograph. A lifetime ago. A shadow crossed his face. "A long time," he agreed, his voice carefully neutral. "Life takes you in unexpected directions." “That’s an understatement,” Rory muttered, then instantly regretted it. He didn't react to her remark. "I'm in London on business," he said smoothly. "A conference. Finance. Boring stuff." Finance. Liam, who used to spend his days poring over Shakespeare, now dealt in… finance? The change was unsettling, like witnessing a butterfly emerge as a beetle. “Finance?” she repeated incredulously. “Since when are you a financier?” He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Since I realized poetry doesn't pay the bills," he replied, a hint of sardonic humor in his tone. Rory laughed, a short, brittle sound. "Remember your grand plans? To be the next Dylan Thomas?" A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Ambition is a luxury for the young," he said, his voice low. "Reality has a way of imposing its own constraints.” "And what reality is that?" Rory challenged, leaning against the bar. She felt a strange compulsion to provoke him, to break through the polished exterior he’d constructed. He met her gaze, his eyes unyielding. “A reality where survival demands adaptability. Where romantic notions give way to pragmatic decisions.” The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. Rory saw a flicker of something in his eyes – a suppressed sadness, perhaps? Or was it just the reflection of the rain-streaked windows? "So, you're a big shot now?" she asked, forcing a lightness into her voice. "Trading sonnets for spreadsheets?" He didn’t smile. "Something like that." He took another sip of his whiskey. "And you?" he asked, his gaze sweeping over her. "Last I heard you were... avoiding law school." She grimaced. "Yeah, well, life took some unexpected turns for me too." She gestured vaguely around the bar. "Delivery driver by day, resident barfly by night." "A far cry from barrister's daughter,” he observed, his voice tinged with something she couldn't quite decipher. “People change, Liam. Remember?” He finished his drink in a single gulp. "Some more than others, it seems." He placed the empty glass on the bar top, the clink echoing in the sudden quiet. Rory’s cheeks flushed. "What's that supposed to mean?" He shrugged, a gesture that seemed calculated rather than spontaneous. "Just an observation. You still have that fire in your eyes, Rory. A certain… defiance. It's... admirable.” Defiance. It had been a long time since anyone described her that way. Lately, she mostly felt tired. "And you have a carefully constructed facade," she countered, unable to resist. "Hiding what, Liam? What are you hiding?" His expression didn’t change. "Some things are better left buried,” he said, his voice low and final. The chime above the door announced another arrival, a young couple dripping with rain. Liam glanced towards them, a subtle shift in his demeanor. The businessman had returned. “I should go,” he said, straightening his coat. “The conference awaits.” He reached into his pocket and placed a crisp fifty-pound note on the bar. "Keep the change," he said, not looking at her. “Liam,” Rory said, her voice barely a whisper. “What happened to us?” He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He turned back to her, his face unreadable. “We were young, Rory,” he said softly. “We made mistakes.” And with that, he was gone, swallowed by the rain and the London night. Rory watched him go, the weight of unspoken regrets settling heavy in her chest. Silas cleared his throat. “He's changed,” he observed, his hazel eyes filled with a knowing sadness. Rory nodded, staring at the spot where Liam had stood. "He has," she agreed, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "He really has.” She picked up a damp cloth and started polishing the bar, the rhythmic motion a futile attempt to erase the ghost of a memory.