AI The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest pulsed like a slow heartbeat against the damp London night, casting jagged shadows across the bar’s worn wooden floor. Aurora Carter—Rory, as she preferred—leaned against the counter, her fingers tracing the rim of her whiskey glass. The amber liquid sloshed inside, catching the light just enough to make her eyes, that bright blue thing, seem to glow faintly. She hadn’t come here for the drink. Not really .
Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, his hands steady despite the slight limp in his left leg. He turned, wiping his palms on a rag, and his hazel eyes locked onto her before he set the rag down. The signet ring on his right hand gleamed under the neon, a silent reminder of the life he’d left behind.
“You’re here,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. Not a greeting. A statement.
Aurora exhaled through her nose, the breath curling around her scarred wrist. She’d forgotten how sharp his gaze could be. “I came for the whiskey.”
Silas didn’t move, didn’t reach for her. “You look different.”
She didn’t flinch. “So do you.”
The air between them thickened, heavy with the weight of years. The bar’s walls, lined with old maps and black-and-white photos, seemed to hold their breath. Rory had been gone too long. Too long to notice how the lines around his mouth had deepened, how his beard had thickened, how the way he carried himself—quiet but unmistakably commanding—hadn’t changed, but everything else had.
“You’re not the same girl who used to drag me out of bars at three in the morning,” Silas said, his voice rough . “You’re not the one who’d laugh at my jokes even when they were bad.”
Aurora didn’t smile. “I’m not the girl who’d let Evan touch me like he did.”
Silas’s jaw tightened. “Evan.”
“Yeah.” She took a slow sip of whiskey, the burn sharp and immediate. “He was a mistake. A bad one.”
Silas didn’t press. He just watched her, his expression unreadable . The bar’s hum filled the silence , the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices from the other end. Rory could feel the weight of it all pressing down on her shoulders, the ghosts of what she’d left behind, the life she’d built in London, the way she’d tried to forget.
“You’re working at Golden Empress now,” Silas said finally. “Cheung’s place.”
Aurora nodded. “Part-time. Delivery. It’s not much, but it’s something .”
Silas’s lips curled slightly . “You’re still smart.”
She didn’t deny it. “I’m still Rory.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice was softer now, almost kind. “You’re Aurora.”
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning. Rory looked away, her gaze flicking over the bar’s cluttered shelves, the flickering neon sign above the door. She’d come here for the whiskey, but she’d come for the memory too. The way Silas had looked at her then, the way he still looked at her now—like she was something worth saving.
“You’re still in London?” Silas asked, breaking the silence .
Aurora hesitated. “Yeah. For now.”
Silas didn’t ask why. He just reached across the bar and slid a glass toward her, the amber liquid already poured. “Drink.”
She did. The whiskey burned, but it was the taste of something else that lingered—old friendship, unspoken regrets, the quiet ache of a life that had changed, but not gone.
The bar’s lights flickered , casting long shadows across Silas’s face. He watched her, his expression unreadable once more.
“You ever miss it?” Rory asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer right away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to her. The bar’s hum filled the silence as she unfolded it, her fingers brushing over the inked words.
*To Rory, wherever you are—*
She looked up at Silas, her eyes wide. “What is this?”
“A letter,” he said, his voice rough . “From Prague.”
Rory’s breath hitched. “From when you were still in the service.”
Silas nodded. “You ever read it?”
She shook her head, her fingers tightening around the paper. “No.”
Silas didn’t press. He just watched her, his expression unreadable once more. The bar’s hum filled the silence , the weight of the past pressing down on them both.
“You’re still in London?” Rory asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer right away. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it to her. The bar’s hum filled the silence as she unfolded it, her fingers brushing over the inked words.
“You ever miss it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, his limp more pronounced now, and stepped closer to the bar. The neon sign above the door pulsed , casting long shadows across the room.
“You’re still smart,” he said, his voice rough . “You’re still Rory.”
She didn’t deny it. “I’m still Aurora.”
Silas reached across the bar and slid another glass toward her, the amber liquid already poured. “Drink.”
She did. The whiskey burned, but the taste of something else lingered—old friendship, the quiet ache of a life that had changed, but not gone. The bar’s lights flickered , casting long shadows across Silas’s face.
“You ever miss it?” Rory asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable . The silence stretched, thick with the weight of years, of unspoken words, of lives that had diverged and yet remained intertwined.
Aurora took another sip of whiskey, the burn sharp and immediate. She looked up at Silas, her eyes reflecting the flickering neon.
“You ever miss it?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer. He just reached into his pocket, pulling out another piece of paper, and placed it on the bar between them. The bar’s hum filled the silence , the weight of the past pressing down on them both.
Rory unfolded the paper, her fingers brushing over the inked words. She read them once, twice, before she looked up at Silas, her eyes wide with something she couldn’t quite name .
“You’re still smart,” Silas said, his voice rough . “You’re still Rory.”
Aurora didn’t say anything. She just watched him, the weight of the past pressing down on her shoulders, the ghosts of what she’d left behind, the life she’d built in London.
Silas reached across the bar, his hand steady despite the slight limp in his left leg. He took her hand in his, his fingers warm and sure.
“You’re still Aurora,” he said, his voice low and firm . “And I’m still Silas.”
The bar’s lights flickered , casting long shadows across the room. Rory looked down at their joined hands, the weight of the past pressing down on them both.
“You ever miss it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable , his hand still holding hers.
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of years, of unspoken words, of lives that had changed and yet remained intertwined. Aurora took another sip of whiskey, the burn sharp and immediate, the taste of something else lingering on her tongue.
Silas pulled his hand back, his expression unreadable . “Come on,” he said, his voice rough . “Let’s get you home.”
Aurora didn’t move right away. She just watched him, the weight of the past pressing down on her, the ghosts of what she’d left behind.
Silas reached into his pocket again, pulling out a key. He placed it on the bar between them.
“For your flat,” he said, his voice low and firm . “The one above my bar.”
Aurora didn’t speak. She just took the key, her fingers brushing over it, feeling the weight of it in her palm.
Silas turned to leave, his limp more pronounced now, the neon sign above the door pulsing faintly.
“You ever miss it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t look back. He just nodded once, his expression unreadable , and stepped out into the night.
Aurora watched him go, the weight of the past pressing down on her shoulders. She took the key in her hand, the weight of it familiar , the ghosts of what she’d left behind lingering in the air.
She turned to leave, her footsteps echoing softly against the bar’s worn floor. The neon sign above the door pulsed , casting long shadows across the room, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
Aurora walked out into the night, the key in her pocket, the weight of the past pressing down on her. She looked back at the Raven’s Nest, the neon sign glowing faintly, the ghosts of what she’d left behind lingering in the air.
She took a deep breath, the night air cool and fresh against her face. The weight of the past pressed down on her, but she didn’t look back. She walked on, her footsteps echoing softly against the pavement, the ghosts of what she’d left behind behind her.
Silas stood at the bar’s entrance, his hand resting on the door handle. The neon sign pulsed , casting long shadows across the street. Aurora paused, her gaze fixed on him, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
“You ever miss it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
Silas didn’t answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable , the weight of the past pressing down on them both.
Aurora took a step forward, her key still in her hand. She reached out, her fingers brushing over the handle, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
Silas didn’t move. He just watched her, his expression unreadable , the weight of the past pressing down on them.
Aurora turned the handle, the door creaking open. The night air rushed in, cool and fresh, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
She stepped inside, her gaze fixed on Silas, the weight of the past pressing down on them both.
Silas didn’t follow. He just watched her, his expression unreadable , the weight of the past pressing down on them.
Aurora walked toward the door, her key still in her hand. She paused, her gaze flicking over the bar’s cluttered shelves, the flickering neon sign above the door.
Silas didn’t move. He just stood there, the weight of the past pressing down on them both.
Aurora turned back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The weight of the past pressed down on her, but she didn’t look away.
Silas reached into his pocket, pulling out another piece of paper. He handed it to her, his expression unreadable .
Aurora unfolded it, her fingers brushing over the inked words. She read them once, twice, before she looked up at Silas, her eyes wide.
“You’re still smart,” he said, his voice rough . “You’re still Rory.”
She didn’t say anything. She just watched him, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
Silas reached across the bar, his hand steady despite the slight limp. He took her hand in his, his fingers warm and sure.
“You’re still Aurora,” he said, his voice low and firm .
Aurora pulled her hand back, her expression unyielding. “I’m not coming back.”
Silas didn’t argue. He just nodded, his expression unreadable , and turned to leave.
Aurora watched him go, the weight of the past pressing down on her. She took the key in her hand, the weight of it familiar , and stepped out into the night.
The door closed behind Silas, the weight of the past pressing down on her. Aurora stood there, the key in her hand, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
She took a deep breath, the night air cool and fresh against her face. The weight of the past pressed down on her, but she didn’t look back. She walked on, her footsteps echoing softly against the pavement, the ghosts of what she’d left behind behind her.
Aurora reached the end of the street, the key still in her hand. She paused, her gaze fixed on the flat above Silas’s bar. The weight of the past pressed down on her, but she didn’t hesitate.
She turned the key in the lock, the door creaking open. The flat was dark, the weight of the past pressing down on her.
Aurora stepped inside, the key still in her hand. The weight of the past pressed down on her, but she didn’t look back.
She turned off the light, the weight of the past pressing down on her shoulders, and lay down on her bed. The weight of the past pressed down on her, but she didn’t think about it.
She closed her eyes, the weight of the past pressing down on her, and slept.