Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7WH86D4C1B7TRPEGCNP89

The chipped Formica of the bar was cool against Rory’s elbows. Friday night at The Raven’s Nest meant a slow burn, mostly regulars and the occasional lost tourist lured in by the green neon glow. Silas, leaning against the back bar polishing glasses with a practiced swirl, hadn’t said a word in the last ten minutes, a comfortable arrangement neither of them needed to disrupt. It was a good night for observing, for letting the city noise blur outside the heavy velvet curtains. She’d clocked out an hour ago, the smell of soy sauce and ginger still clinging to her jacket. Another hundred deliveries for Yu-Fei, another hundred smiles plastered on for impatient customers. It wasn't glamorous, but it paid the rent on the flat above the bar, and Silas didn’t ask questions. Some debts were paid with more than just currency. The bell above the door chimed, a discordant jangle that cut through the low hum of conversation. Rory glanced up, automatically assessing the newcomer. Tall. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that suggested a life lived outside, exposed to the elements. Then he turned, and a jolt ran through her that had nothing to do with caffeine or exhaustion. It was Ben. Ben Alistair. The boy she’d known since primary school, the boy whose hand she’d held during particularly bad thunderstorms, the boy she’d sworn she’d one day run away to Paris with. But this wasn’t the Ben she remembered. The sandy blonde hair was gone, replaced by a severe, close-cropped cut the color of slate. His jaw, once soft, was now etched with hard lines. A network of fine scars crisscrossed the back of his hand, barely visible beneath the cuff of his worn leather jacket. His eyes, once the bright, optimistic green of a spring meadow, were shadowed, guarded. They scanned the room, lingering on her for a fraction of a second before moving on, as if trying to place a vaguely familiar face. He didn’t seem to recognize her. Silas, however, had noticed. He’d stopped polishing glasses and was regarding Ben with a quiet appraisal, his hazel eyes narrowed. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the dim light. Ben settled onto a barstool a few feet down from Rory, the leather creaking in protest. He signaled to Silas with a curt nod. “Whiskey. Neat.” Silas moved with his usual unhurried grace, pouring the drink with steady hands. “Long time no see,” he said, his voice a low rumble. Ben’s eyes flickered to Silas, a flicker of something that might have been recognition, or perhaps just polite acknowledgment. “You know me, Silas?” Silas chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “This is Soho, Mr. Alistair. A man can’t swing a cat without hitting someone’s past.” He slid the glass across the bar. Ben didn’t respond, simply took a long swallow of whiskey. He stared into the amber liquid, his expression unreadable. Rory, her heart hammering against her ribs, finally found her voice. “Ben?” He turned slowly, his gaze meeting hers. For a long moment, he just stared, his face a mask of confusion. Then, a slow dawning. “Rory?” He said her name like he was testing it, unsure if it still fit. “Bloody hell. Rory Carter. Is that really you?” “Last time I checked,” she said, trying for a lightness she didn’t feel. He managed a ghost of a smile, a fleeting expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit.” It was a lie. She had changed. The easy confidence of their youth had been chipped away, replaced by a cautious reserve. She touched her wrist unconsciously, her fingers tracing the faint crescent scar, a reminder of a childhood fall and, lately, of everything else she’d fallen from. “Neither have you,” she countered, knowing it was equally false. “Oh, I assure you,” he said, his voice laced with a weary irony, “I’ve changed plenty.” He took another drink, the whiskey burning its way down his throat. There was a loaded silence. Rory struggled to find something innocuous to say, something to bridge the chasm of years and unspoken history. “What brings you to Soho?” she asked, settling on the safest possible question. His gaze drifted to the maps that plastered the walls of The Raven’s Nest, ancient cartography mixed with modern city plans. “Business,” he said vaguely. "I'm...consulting." “Consulting,” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. Ben Alistair, the aspiring architect, now a consultant. It didn’t quite fit. “Sounds fancy.” He shrugged. “Pays the bills. What about you? Still sketching designs in the margins of your textbooks?” She laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Textbooks are a distant memory. I deliver Chinese food now.” His expression softened slightly. “Really? That’s… unexpected.” “Life has a way of being unexpected.” She paused, then ventured, “What happened? You just… vanished after uni. No calls, no letters. My mum was worried sick.” He flinched, a barely perceptible movement. “It’s a long story.” “We have time,” Rory said softly, recognizing the guardedness. Silas, ever observant, had quietly resumed polishing glasses, but she sensed his attention was still fixed on them. Ben hesitated, then sighed, running a hand through his cropped hair. “I joined up. Army. Thought I needed… a purpose.” “Army?” The word felt foreign on her tongue. Ben, the pacifist, the boy who wouldn’t hurt a fly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He took another swill of whiskey. “Turns out, I was wrong.” “Where did you go?” He avoided her gaze. “Places. Doesn’t matter. I did things I’m not proud of.” “Things?” “Let’s just say it wasn’t building hospitals. I… I got involved in some operations. Covert stuff.” He finally looked at her, his eyes filled with a dark, haunted quality. “It changes you, Rory. You see things, you do things… you come back a different person.” She remembered his hands, skilled at delicate pencil work, capable of conjuring beauty from a blank page. Now they bore the scars of something else entirely. “I can see that.” “You wouldn't believe it if I told you half of it.” He shook his head. "It's better left unsaid." “Was it worth it?” she asked, the question hanging in the air between them. He stared at his glass, his knuckles white as he gripped it. "Worth it to whom?" The silence returned, heavier now, fraught with unasked questions and regrets. Rory thought of the plans they'd made, the dreams they'd shared, all dissolving into the mist of years and bad decisions. She thought of Evan, the reason she’d fled to London, and the lightness that had been stolen from her. Both of them had lost their way. “I always thought you’d build something beautiful,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper. He looked up, a shadow of pain crossing his face. “And you? I thought you’d be in Paris, painting masterpieces.” “Paris felt a long way away,” she said, her gaze dropping to her hands. “It always does, doesn’t it?" Ben finished, a hollow echo of our forgotten dreams. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and placed the empty glass on the bar. “I should go.” He stood, taller and broader than she remembered, a stranger in a familiar frame. “It was…” she started, searching for the right word. “Complicated,” he finished for her. "It'll always be complicated." He nodded curtly at Silas, then turned and walked towards the door, disappearing into the London night. Rory watched him go, a profound sense of loss washing over her. Not just for the boy she remembered, but for the life they might have had. Silas placed a fresh glass in front of her, filling it with a neat measure of gin. "Sometimes," he said, his voice low, "the past is best left undisturbed." Rory didn’t respond. She raised the glass to her lips, the cold liquid burning a path down her throat. The Raven's Nest felt colder now, the shadows deeper. The scent of old maps and regret hung heavy in the air. Some debts, she realized, could never truly be repaid. And some ghosts were destined to haunt you, no matter how far you ran.