Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8D8THYCBNPE7804FS6G9H

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest bled a sickly light onto the rain-slicked pavement of Soho. Rory pulled her collar higher, the damp chill seeping through her thin jacket. Another delivery for the Golden Empress, another hurried drop-off, another few pounds closer to rent. She hated these late shifts. The city felt different at night, sharper, more predatory. She pushed open the heavy oak door, the familiar scent of stale beer, polished wood, and something indefinably older washing over her. Silas would be at the bar, no doubt, nursing a whiskey and watching the world through eyes that had seen far too much. She nodded to the bartender, a young man with a shaved head and multiple piercings, and headed towards the familiar counter. Then she saw her. Across the room, bathed in the amber glow of a table lamp, sat a woman she hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Elara. Rory stopped dead, the delivery bag bumping against her leg. Fifteen years. It felt like a lifetime. Elara had been the sun in their small, Cardiff world. Bright, laughing, effortlessly cool. Rory, the quiet observer, content to orbit around her. They’d sworn they’d conquer London together, become artists, writers, something dazzling. Life, as it often did, had other plans. Elara hadn’t aged badly. Not at all. She was…transformed. The girl with the wild, auburn curls and paint-stained fingers was gone. In her place sat a woman sculpted from ice and diamonds. Her hair was a sleek, dark bob, pulled back from a face that was all sharp angles and expensive bone structure. She wore a tailored black suit, the kind that cost more than Rory’s entire wardrobe. A single, flawless emerald ring glittered on her left hand. She was talking to a man in a suit even more expensive than hers, his face obscured by shadow. Rory felt a sudden, inexplicable pang of…loss. Not just for the girl she’d known, but for the girl she’d imagined they’d both become. Silas, ever observant, caught her eye from behind the bar. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question. Rory nodded almost imperceptibly, then forced herself to move forward. “Elara?” she said, her voice sounding thin and reedy even to her own ears. The woman turned, her eyes – the same vibrant green Rory remembered – narrowed slightly. Recognition flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a carefully constructed mask of polite indifference. “Rory? Rory Carter? My goodness. I hardly recognized you.” The accent was different, too. Sharper, more precise, with a hint of something foreign. “It’s been a while,” Rory managed, feeling awkward and out of place in her worn jeans and delivery jacket. “Indeed,” Elara said, her gaze sweeping over Rory’s clothes with a subtle, almost imperceptible disdain. “What brings you to The Raven’s Nest?” “Delivery,” Rory said, gesturing to the bag. “Golden Empress. You?” Elara’s lips curved into a brittle smile. “Business. Always business.” She gestured to the man beside her. “This is Mr. Volkov. He’s a…client.” Mr. Volkov offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable. Rory didn’t linger on him. She focused on Elara, searching for a flicker of the girl she remembered. “You look…well,” Rory stammered, hating how clumsy she sounded. “Different.” Elara laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Different is an understatement, I think. Life has a way of changing things, doesn’t it?” “It does,” Rory agreed, remembering Evan, the abusive ex she’d escaped, the years spent drifting, the quiet desperation of scraping by. “So, what have you been up to?” Elara asked, her voice carefully neutral. Rory hesitated. “Not much. Delivery work. Living above Silas’ bar.” She gestured vaguely. “You know.” Elara’s eyes flickered to Silas, then back to Rory. “Above Silas’ bar. How…quaint.” The word dripped with a condescension that stung. Rory felt a familiar defensiveness rising within her. “It’s a roof over my head,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. Elara raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Well, I’m involved in…international finance now. Acquisitions, mergers, that sort of thing.” “Sounds…complicated,” Rory said, picturing spreadsheets and boardrooms and a world she could never understand. “It is,” Elara agreed. “But rewarding. Very rewarding.” She glanced at her watch, a thick gold band encrusted with diamonds. “I’m afraid I have a meeting. It was…pleasant seeing you, Rory.” “You too, Elara,” Rory said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. As Elara rose to leave, Mr. Volkov placed a hand on her arm, his grip surprisingly firm. They disappeared into the London night, swallowed by the rain and the shadows. Rory turned back to the bar, feeling a strange hollowness in her chest. Silas was watching her, his hazel eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Well?” he asked, polishing a glass with a practiced hand. “She’s…changed,” Rory said, stating the obvious. “People do,” Silas said, his voice low. “Especially when they chase different stars.” “Did she ever…did she ever do any of the things we talked about?” Rory asked, the question hanging in the air. The art, the writing, the dazzling life they’d dreamed of. Silas paused, his gaze fixed on a point beyond Rory’s shoulder. “She had a talent, yes. But talent alone isn’t enough. It needs…direction. And sometimes, the direction people choose isn’t the one you expect.” Rory nodded, the unspoken regret settling heavily on her. She’d chosen a different path, a quieter one. A path that had kept her safe, but also…small. “She seemed…distant,” Rory said, more to herself than to Silas. “She’s built walls, Rory,” Silas said, his voice soft. “High walls. It’s a good way to protect yourself. A lonely way, but effective.” He slid a glass of whiskey across the bar. “On the house.” Rory took a sip, the burn a welcome distraction. She looked around the bar, at the old maps and black-and-white photographs, at the familiar faces of the regulars. This was her world. A world of quiet routines and small comforts. A world far removed from the glittering life Elara now inhabited. “Do you ever…regret anything, Silas?” Rory asked, surprising herself with the question. Silas’s face darkened slightly, a flicker of pain crossing his features. He looked down at the silver signet ring on his right hand, a silent testament to a past he rarely spoke of. “Regret is a luxury I can’t afford, Rory,” he said, his voice tight. “But I’ve learned that sometimes, the choices you don’t make are just as important as the ones you do.” He paused, then looked at her, his eyes filled with a weary wisdom. “Don’t waste your time wondering what might have been, Rory. Focus on what is.” Rory finished her whiskey, the taste bitter on her tongue. She looked back towards the door, half expecting to see Elara reappear, to offer some explanation, some apology. But the rain continued to fall, washing away the last traces of her presence. She picked up the delivery bag, the weight of it familiar and comforting. Another delivery. Another few pounds closer to rent. Another night in her quiet, ordinary world. A world that, despite its limitations, was undeniably hers. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.