AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest bled a sickly light across the rain-slicked pavement of Soho. Aurora Carter pulled her collar higher, the damp chill clinging to her like a second skin. Delivering a late-night order of Yu-Fei Cheung’s General Tso’s chicken wasn’t exactly glamorous, but it paid the rent on the flat above Silas's bar. She fumbled with the insulated bag, its contents sloshing with each step, and pushed open the heavy oak door.
The bar was predictably dim, smelling of stale beer, aged wood, and something vaguely floral—Silas's attempts at sophisticated air freshener, she suspected. The familiar murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the low thrum of jazz music, created a comforting blanket of sound. She scanned the room, searching for Silas, and almost stopped dead.
Sitting at the far end of the bar, nursing a whiskey, was Elara Davies.
Aurora hadn’t seen Elara in nearly a decade. Not since university, not since they'd drifted apart, their lives diverging like tributaries of a single river. Elara had been all vibrant energy, a whirlwind of art and ambition, draped in flowing scarves and oversized glasses, a sketchbook perpetually glued to her hand.
This woman… this was not Elara .
The woman before her wore a tailored suit, the charcoal gray sharp and severe against her pale skin. Her fiery red hair, once a chaotic mane, was now sleekly pulled back into a tight bun. The oversized glasses were gone , replaced by discreet, frameless lenses that magnified her eyes—eyes that held a depth of weariness Aurora hadn't remembered. The vibrant artist had been replaced by something polished, something… contained.
Aurora hesitated, the General Tso’s chicken suddenly feeling incredibly awkward in her hand. Silas hadn't mentioned anything about Elara . She hadn't known Elara even lived in London anymore.
Elara looked up, her gaze sweeping across the room until it landed on Aurora. A flicker of recognition crossed her face, a brief flash of the girl Aurora remembered, quickly masked by an expression that could have been polite indifference.
“Aurora?” Elara ’s voice was lower than Aurora recalled, huskier, almost brittle.
“Elara ,” Aurora managed, stepping closer . “Wow. I… I didn’t know you were here.”
“It’s been a long time,” Elara said, her gaze fixed on the amber liquid swirling in her glass.
Aurora set the delivery bag on a nearby table. “It has. What are you—?” She trailed off, unsure how to phrase the question that hung in the air . What was she doing here, looking like this, so different from the Elara she’d known?
“Working,” Elara said, her voice flat. “I’m in London on business.”
“Business? You? I thought you were… in Florence, painting frescoes.” Aurora’s memory, vivid as it was, felt like a faded photograph. She remembered late nights in the art studio, fueled by cheap coffee and boundless dreams.
Elara gave a short, humorless laugh. “That was a lifetime ago. I’m in finance now. Acquisitions, mergers, that sort of thing.”
The words hung in the air , heavy with unspoken implications. Acquisitions and mergers. Far removed from watercolors and canvases.
“Finance,” Aurora repeated, trying to reconcile the image of the bohemian artist with the icy efficiency of a corporate raider. “That’s… quite a change.”
“People change, Aurora.” Elara ’s gaze finally met hers, and for a fleeting moment, Aurora saw a shadow pass across her eyes—a flicker of regret , perhaps, or something darker. “Perhaps you’ve noticed.”
Aurora felt a pang of something she couldn't quite name—a mixture of sadness and a strange sense of loss . "I have. You look… good. Very polished.” It sounded inadequate, even to her own ears.
“Thank you,” Elara said, her tone carefully neutral. “And you? Still delivering Chinese food?”
The casual dismissal stung more than Aurora expected. "Part-time," she corrected, acutely aware of the delivery bag at her side. “It’s… flexible.” And it kept a roof over her head, a roof that was above Silas's bar, putting her in proximity to a world she hadn't actively sought but somehow found herself drawn into.
Silas appeared at their side, his grey-streaked auburn hair neatly combed. He moved with a slight limp, favoring his left leg, a permanent souvenir from a past Aurora barely understood. “Elara ! My dear girl. It’s been far too long.” He offered a warm smile, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her, oblivious to the subtle tension between the two women.
"Silas," Elara acknowledged with a curt nod. "It's good to see you too."
"I'll get you something, Elara ," Silas said, already heading toward the bar. "What will you have?"
"Just the whiskey," she replied, her voice still low.
"Aurora," Silas said, turning back to Aurora. “Everything alright with the delivery?”
“Yes, fine," Aurora said, shrugging. “Just… a surprise reunion.”
Silas glanced from Aurora to Elara , a knowing look flickering in his eyes. He seemed to sense the distance between them, the unspoken history that lay beneath the surface of their polite conversation. He wisely retreated, leaving them to their awkward reunion.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Aurora took a deep breath. “So, acquisitions and mergers… that must be… intense.”
“It is,” Elara agreed. “Demanding. All-consuming, really .”
“Does it… make you happy?” The question slipped out before Aurora could stop it.
Elara hesitated, her gaze dropping to her glass again. “Happiness is a luxury I can’t afford,” she said quietly . “Not anymore.”
Aurora felt a wave of empathy wash over her. She remembered Elara's passion, her joy in creating, the way her face would light up when she talked about art. Where had that gone? What had happened to the girl who used to paint sunflowers on her bedroom wall?
“I’m sorry,” Aurora said, the words inadequate but sincere.
“Don’t be,” Elara said, her voice regaining some of its former strength. “This is who I am now. This is what I do.” She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "It pays very well."
Aurora thought of Evan, of the bruises he’d left on her skin, of the fear that had coiled around her heart. She thought of Silas, of the quiet strength he offered, of the strange and dangerous world he’d begun to expose her to. She thought of her own life, of the choices she’d made to survive, to rebuild.
“We all make choices,” Aurora said softly . “Some of them are… harder than others.”
Elara finally met her gaze, and for the first time, Aurora saw a glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes. “Do you ever think about it?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper . “About what could have been?”
Aurora looked around the dimly lit bar, at the old maps and black-and-white photographs that lined the walls. She thought of Cardiff, of university, of the shared dreams they’d once held. She thought of the paths they’d taken, the lives they’d built.
“Sometimes,” Aurora admitted. “But I try not to dwell on it.” She paused, then added, “Some things are better left in the past.”
Elara nodded slowly , her expression unreadable . She took a long sip of her whiskey. The silence returned, but it felt different now—less tense, more contemplative.
“I should go,” Elara said finally, placing her glass on the bar. “I have an early meeting.”
“Right,” Aurora said, feeling a strange sense of closure.
Elara stood up, smoothing down the skirt of her suit. She extended her hand, and Aurora shook it—a brief, formal gesture that felt like a farewell .
“It was… good to see you, Aurora,” Elara said, her voice devoid of emotion.
“You too, Elara ,” Aurora replied, holding her gaze for a moment longer.
Elara turned and walked away, disappearing into the Soho night. Aurora watched her go, a sense of melancholy settling over her. The vibrant artist was gone , replaced by a woman who seemed to have traded her soul for success. And Aurora wondered, with a pang of regret , if that was a price worth paying. She picked up the delivery bag, the aroma of General Tso's chicken now strangely poignant. Silas was watching her, his face unreadable .
"She seemed... different," he observed quietly, as Aurora approached the bar.
“She was,” Aurora replied, carefully avoiding his gaze. "Time changes people, doesn’t it?”