AI The bell above the door of The Raven's Nest jingles, sharp and tinny in the dim hush of closing time. Rory Carter pauses, her rag hovering over the oak bar , and squints. It’s not the wind—this part of Soho is too tight, too cluttered with brick and neon to let much through. She dabs at a ring of condensation left by a half-finished pint, the wood grain drinking in the water like a parched mouth. The clock on the wall behind the bar ticks. Ten minutes past midnight. Silas will be in the back, checking the safe, his left leg creaking as he shifts. She’d asked him once if he was breaking it on purpose. He’d laughed, a low, rumbling sound, and said, *Knees have memories *.
“Rory.”
The voice is smaller than she remembers, rougher at the edges. She looks up.
Eva .
Rory’s hand tightens around the rag. Not Eva . *Not her *. Not after five years. Not since the day she left Cardiff, email in hand: *Come to London. Please. Trust me *. Then silence . Radio silence . A mutual friend, Lila, had mentioned seeing her in Dublin last summer, sleek and silver-haired, laughing with a man in a tailored suit. *Eva’s going into law *, Lila had said. *She’s killing it, apparently *. Killing it. As if Rory hadn’t spent the last two years delivering takeout curry to dreadlocked students and harried bankers, her hands chapped from carrying boxes, her phone screen cracked from a fall down a dimly lit stairwell (Alvaro, the pizza guy, had helped her up, but she’d kissed him quick, desperate, and he’d left without a word).
Eva stands in the doorway, half-in shadow. The neon sign flickers, casting green strips across her face. Her hair is dark, but lighter at the roots, like she’s been dyeing it new colors every season. She’s wearing a coat Rory doesn’t recognize—black, expensive, the kind that brushes the backs of her knees. Her nails are painted red, chipped at the tips. Her eyes, once so warm, are wide, guarded. She’s 25, same as Rory, but you’d never know it. Her shoulders are straight, her posture perfect , like she’s still sitting through lectures in Oxford’s stone halls.
“Hey,” Eva says again. “You… you don’t remember me, do you?”
Rory’s throat feels like it’s filled with sand. *Eva *. The girl who’d climbed trees with her in Roath Park, who’d stolen redcurrants from Mrs. Hughes’ garden and gotten them both chased by a cocker spaniel. The girl who’d held her while Evan’s voice rose, who’d handed her a bus ticket and said, *I’ll handle it *. *I’ll handle it *. As if handling it didn’t mean leaving Rory behind, in a city that had started to rot .
“Evan’s dead ,” Rory says. It comes out as a growl. She wipes the bar so hard the rag frays. “You knew that, right? He died last year. Liver failure. Did you go to the funeral?”
Eva flinches. The coat slips off one shoulder, revealing a necklace—small , silver, a raven. Rory’s chest tightens. *Silas’ raven *. She’s seen it in the back room, framed in a black frame. “I… I heard. Lila told me. I’m sorry . I should’ve… I didn’t know how to…”
“How to what?” Rory slams the rag down. It hits the bar with a *thud *. “How to call? How to say *I’m sorry I left you *? How to say *I watched him hit me and I hated myself for not stopping you *?”
Eva ’s eyes fill. “I was scared,” she whispers. “Christ, Rory, I was terrified. He found out I’d told you about the lease, about the way he was siphoning money from his parents’ account. He said if I ever talked to you again, he’d ruin me. I had a scholarship, Rory. A full ride. If he ruined me, I’d never be anything. And you—you were just… you were so *angry *. You said he was the only one who’d ever liked you, that you’d never survive without him. I couldn’t…”
“I didn’t mean it,” Rory says, softer now. The anger drains out of her, leaving a hollow ache. She sinks onto a stool, her legs protesting. The floorboards creak under her weight . “I was so *sick * of him. But you—you should’ve fought. You should’ve *believed * I was worth saving.”
Eva crosses the room, slow, like she’s afraid Rory will flinch. She sits on the stool next to her, keeping a careful distance. “I fought,” she says. “God, I fought. I went to the police. To social services. They said there was no proof. Evan has a way of making people think he’s just a *charming * man. A *good * man. And you… you’d come around. You’d text me, *He didn’t mean it, he loves me * and I’d delete the messages because if I kept them, I’d have to face the truth: that I’d abandoned you. That I’d let him win.”
Rory looks at her. At the bracelet on her wrist—thick, silver, a dragon. Evan’s grandmother had given them both bracelets when they were teenagers, said they’d protect them. Rory’s is thin, coiled around her left wrist, the metal worn smooth except for a small crescent-shaped scar. The accident. A kitchen knife. Evan had laughed when she’d cried, said, *You’re so dramatic, Rory *. She’d grabbed a knife to defend herself, missed, nicked her wrist. The paramedic had said it was a clean cut, that she was lucky. *You’re so lucky *, Evan had cooed, pressing a cold cloth to the wound. *Let me take care of you *.
“You never called,” she says.
Eva shakes her head. “I couldn’t. I’d see your name on my phone and I’d… I’d panic. I thought if I ignored you, it would be easier. That I could forget the way you looked when I left Cardiff, the way you looked like I’d stolen the last piece of her. But I can’t forget it. I never have.”
Rory turns her wrist, the scar catching the light. “I changed,” she says. “A lot. You… you changed too. But not the way I thought. I thought you’d be someone I could lean on. Someone who remembers what it’s like to be *small *.”
Eva reaches out, pauses, then covers Rory’s hand with hers. It’s warm, calloused. “I remember,” she says. “I remember you crying over that stupid teddy bear you had, the one with one ear. I remember you fighting off that boy from school who called you a ‘welsh weed’. I remember when your dad left, and you said you’d never love anyone again, and I promised I’d never let anything happen to you. I broke that promise. I’m so sorry.”
The bar is quiet. Silas’ low voice drifts through the door to the back room. “Rory, you got a minute? Found—” He stops when he sees them. “Oh. My. Christ.”
Rory pulls her hand away, wiping it on her apron. Silas props himself in the doorway, his auburn beard flecked with grey, his hazel eyes sharp. He’s wearing his usual black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his signet ring glinting on his right hand. His left leg is turned outward, the limp evident even in the dim light.
“Si,” Rory says, jaw tight . “You’re supposed to be checking the safe.”
“I was until I heard yelling,” he says, ambulating over to the bar . He nods at Eva . “Hello, Miss…?”
“Eva Carter,” she says, standing. “From Cardiff. You remember me? Rory talked about you all the time.”
Silas studies her, his gaze sharp as a blade. “Rory did,” he says. “Said you were the only one who could keep her out of trouble. Which, I gather, isn’t true anymore.”
Eva laughs, a small , bitter sound. “I’m the one who got her into trouble, actually. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be in Cardiff, waiting for Evan to call. Waiting for him to *love * her.”
Silas sits on the stool across from them, his knee creaking. “Evan was a cancer,” he says. “You didn’t just get him into trouble, Eva . You *saved * her from him. That’s what this place is for, you know. Saving people. From themselves. From other people. From the kinds of men who think they own a woman’s wrist, or her heart, or her *mind *.” He nods at Rory’s scar. “I saw it when she first started working here. 21, scared shitless, but still trying to smile. Said it was from a kitchen knife. I didn’t press. Some secrets are better kept.”
Rory flinches. “You knew,” she says.
Silas shrugs. “I’ve seen worse. You think I came to London for a *bar *? I came for the stories. For the ones that aren’t told. For the ones that *need * to be heard. And your story… it’s one of survival. That’s a good thing, Rory. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not.”
Eva reaches into her bag, pulls out a photo. It’s faded, taken in Roath Park, summer of 2015. Rory is 19, grinning, a redcurrant stuck to her cheek. Eva is 19, too, posing like a model, one arm slung around Rory’s shoulders. They’re both wearing the dragon bracelets.
“I found this in my apartment in Dublin,” she says. “I keep it in my wallet. I look at it when I’m scared. When I’m… when I need to remember why I do what I do.” She pauses. “I’m taking a job at a law firm in London. Starting next month. I know it’s not much, but… I want to help people . The way you helped Rory. The way I should’ve helped her, back then.”
Rory takes the photo. Her fingers brush Eva ’s. “You still owe me a beer,” she says. “And a story. About Oxford. About the dog you said bit you. About *everything *.”
Eva smiles. “A million stories. But first—” She pauses, glancing at the clock. “I should go. The last tube leaves in 20 minutes. But I’ll call you. Tomorrow. Maybe. If you want.”
Rory nods. “I want. But if you don’t… I’ll track you down. I know where you live. In London, at least.”
Eva stands, slinging her coat back on. “Deal.”
She pauses at the door, looking back. “Thank you, Rory. For… for not hating me.”
Rory looks at the photo, then up. “Hate takes too much energy. I’m saving mine for the next time Evan’s *dead *.”
Eva laughs, and the bell jingles again. She’s gone.
Silas sighs, shifting on his stool. “So. Family, huh?”
Rory leans forward, setting the photo down. “Yeah. Family. Even if she’s an idiot.”
Silas smiles. “You’re an idiot too. But that’s why I like you.” He nods at the photo. “Keep it. The past is messy, but it’s ours. All of ours.”
Rory picks up the rag, starting to wipe the bar again. The clock ticks. Somewhere, a car backfires. The green neon sign flickers.
She thinks about Evan, about the way his voice used to sound, low and honeyed. She thinks about Eva , about the redcurrants and the dragon bracelet and the way she said *I’m sorry *. She thinks about Silas, about the way he’d never asked questions, but had always known.
Time has weight . It’s a thing you carry, like a backpack full of stones. But sometimes, you meet someone—an old friend, a mentor, a stranger—and they help you put some of them down.
The bell jingles again.
Rory looks up. It’s a delivery—the Golden Empress’ late shift. She stands, grabbing her jacket.
“Si?” she says, over her shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Next time you want to check the safe, lock the door. Old habits.”
He laughs. “You think I’ve forgotten how to lock a door?”
“With *regret *, Si. With *regret *.”
She walks out into the night, the scar on her wrist warm against her skin. The streetlamps glow, casting long shadows. Somewhere, a dog barks.
She smiles.
Maybe, she thinks, time can be unwritten.
Maybe, it’s never too late to start over.
The green neon sign flickers.
And for a moment, it feels like home.