Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9J0Q7VPNV8A6RWKVXTREZ

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged whiskey and damp wool, the kind of scent that clung to the air like a ghost from another time. Aurora Carter—Rory, as she preferred it—pushed open the door, her boots crunching on the gravel outside. The neon green sign flickered above the entrance, casting a sickly green glow over the dim interior. She had come for the food, of course, but also for the quiet, the way the bar hummed with the kind of low murmur that suggested secrets were being whispered behind closed eyes. She hadn’t been here in years. The bar was smaller than she remembered, the walls lined with maps and photographs that seemed to shift slightly when she looked too long. Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, his back to her, a glass of whiskey in hand. He turned then, his hazel eyes sharp with recognition. "Aurora," he said, voice low. "You look… different." She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "And you look the same." He didn’t flinch. "Same as always." She stepped closer, the scent of aged leather and something sharper—old smoke—washing over her. "You’ve got a limp," she said, not unkindly. "I didn’t expect that." Silas’ fingers tightened around the glass. "Knee’s still not right." "From Prague," she guessed. "I remember." He nodded, but his jaw was set. "You’re not the same." She reached for the menu pinned to the wall, her fingers brushing against the edge of a photograph of a younger Silas, grinning at a camera. "I’m still Rory," she said. "Still the one who left." Silas didn’t look away. "You didn’t have to." The words hung between them, heavy as the weight of years. She turned back to the menu, her thumb tracing the words. "I had to," she said softly. "I had to get away." Silas set his glass down with a quiet clink. "From Evan?" She didn’t answer right away. The memory was still raw, still sharp. She had come to London to escape, to start over, but the weight of it had settled in her bones. "I thought I could," she said finally. "I thought I could outrun it." Silas studied her for a long moment. "You didn’t." The words hit her like a punch. She looked away, her fingers tightening around the menu. "I tried," she said. "I tried to be someone else." Silas’ voice was quiet. "You were always Rory." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I was," she admitted. "But I wasn’t enough." The bar seemed to hold its breath. Silas reached across the counter, his hand brushing hers. "You were enough," he said. "For me." She pulled her hand back, her fingers aching. "I left you." Silas’ expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped. "I know." She wanted to ask why he hadn’t reached out. Why he hadn’t tried to find her. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, "I should go." Silas didn’t move. "No." She turned to him, her blue eyes sharp. "What?" He gestured to the menu. "Food." She hesitated, then reached for it. The moment her fingers brushed the paper, she felt the weight of it all again—the years, the choices, the way the world had moved on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. "You’re still here," he said. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she had left behind. The one who had carried on, who had kept the bar going, who had kept the secrets alive. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas didn’t smile. "Don’t be." She swallowed. "I should’ve come back sooner." He shook his head. "You didn’t have to." She looked around the bar, at the photographs, at the maps, at the way the light caught the edges of the room. "I’m not sure I can." Silas’ voice was gentle. "You can try." She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "I don’t know if I can." Silas studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "You always could." She looked at him, her heart pounding. "I don’t know if I can do this anymore." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You can," he said. "You always can." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. Instead, he said, "Eat." She looked at the menu again, her stomach growling softly. "I don’t know if I can." Silas stood, his limp barely noticeable. "Then you won’t." She followed him to the counter, her fingers brushing against the edge of the photograph again. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas turned to her, his eyes soft. "For what?" She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she had left behind. The one who had carried on, who had kept the bar going, who had kept the secrets alive. "For leaving," she said. Silas didn’t smile. "I know." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I should’ve come back sooner." Silas shook his head. "You didn’t have to." She looked around the bar, at the photographs, at the maps, at the way the light caught the edges of the room. "I’m not sure I can." Silas’ voice was gentle. "You can try." She hesitated, then reached for the menu. The moment her fingers brushed the paper, she felt the weight of it all again—the years, the choices, the way the world had moved on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. "I’m still Rory," she said. "Still the one who left." Silas didn’t look away. "You were always Rory," he said. "For me." She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "I was," she admitted. "But I wasn’t enough." Silas’ fingers tightened around the glass. "You were enough," he said. "For me." She pulled her hand back, her fingers aching. "I left you." Silas’ voice was quiet. "I know." She wanted to ask why he hadn’t reached out. Why he hadn’t tried to find her. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, "I should go." Silas didn’t move. "No." She turned to him, her blue eyes sharp. "What?" Silas gestured to the menu. "Food." She hesitated, then reached for it. The moment her fingers brushed the paper, she felt the weight of it all again—the years, the choices, the way the world had moved on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. "You’re still here," he said. She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she had left behind. The one who had carried on, who had kept the bar going, who had kept the secrets alive. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas didn’t smile. "Don’t be." She swallowed. "I should’ve come back sooner." Silas shook his head. "You didn’t have to." She looked at him, her heart pounding. "I’m not sure I can." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You can," he said. "You always can." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can do this anymore." Silas didn’t argue. Instead, he said, "Eat." She hesitated, then turned to the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had gone on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long gone. "I’m sorry," she said again, softer this time. Silas didn’t look away. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "For leaving you." He didn’t smile. "I know." She looked around the bar, at the photographs of a life she had once known, at the maps that told stories she had once been part of. "I should’ve stayed," she said. Silas’ voice was gentle. "You couldn’t have." She shook her head. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You did," he said. "You tried." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She looked at him, her heart pounding, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she had left behind. The one who had carried on, who had kept the bar going, who had kept the secrets alive. "I’m not sure I can," she said. Silas stood, his limp barely noticeable. "Then you won’t." She followed him to the counter, her fingers brushing against the edge of the photograph again. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas turned to her, his eyes soft. "For what?" She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the man she had left behind. "For leaving," she said. Silas didn’t smile. "I know." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I should’ve come back sooner." Silas shook his head. "You didn’t have to." She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the menu. "I’m not sure I can." Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "You can try." She looked up at him, her heart heavy. "I don’t know if I can." Silas reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. "You always can," he said. "For me." She closed her eyes, the warmth of his touch seeping into her skin. "I’m sorry," she whispered. Silas didn’t pull away. "Don’t be." She opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his. "I should go." Silas’ voice was firm. "No." She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "I don’t know if I can." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm and sure. "You can," he said. "You always can." She looked at him, her heart pounding, and for the first time in years, she saw the man she had left behind. The one who had carried on, who had kept the bar going, who had kept the secrets alive. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas didn’t smile. "Don’t be." She swallowed, the weight of it all pressing down on her. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ voice was gentle. "You couldn’t have." She shook her head. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ fingers tightened around hers. "You did," he said. "You tried." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She looked at him, her heart pounding, and saw the man she had left behind. The one who had carried on, who had kept the bar going, who had kept the secrets alive. "I’m not sure I can," she said. Silas stood, his limp barely noticeable. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, then turned to the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had gone on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long gone. "I’m sorry," she said again, softer this time. Silas didn’t look away. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "For leaving you." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Aurora finally looked up, her eyes meeting Silas’ in the dim light. "I should go," she said. Silas didn’t move. "No." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The weight of the past pressed down on her, a mountain she had tried to climb but never quite reached. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her stomach growling softly despite herself. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You couldn’t have," he said softly. She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had carried on without her. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ eyes met hers, his expression gentle. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "For leaving you." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." She looked around, at the photographs, at the maps, at the way the light played across the walls. "I should’ve come back sooner." Silas’ voice was quiet. "You didn’t have to." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The past pressed down on her, a weight she had tried to carry alone. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long forgotten. "I’m not sure I can," she said. Silas’ hand found hers, his fingers warm and sure. "You can," he said. "You always can." She looked up at him, her heart pounding. "I’m sorry," she whispered. Silas didn’t pull away. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ voice was gentle. "You couldn’t have." She shook her head. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ fingers tightened around hers. "You did." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze locked onto his. "I’m not sure I can." Silas stood, his left leg shifting slightly beneath him. "Then you won’t." She turned back to the menu, her fingers tracing the words. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had gone on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long gone. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You couldn’t have," he said softly. She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She closed her eyes, the weight pressing down on her. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his. "I’m sorry." Silas didn’t smile. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "For leaving you." Silas’ eyes held hers, his expression gentle. "I know." The silence stretched between them, thick with the unspoken. Aurora finally looked away, her fingers brushing the edge of the photograph on the wall. "I should go," she said. Silas didn’t move. "No." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The past pressed down on her, a weight she had carried alone. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long forgotten. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers, his fingers warm and sure. "You couldn’t have," he said. She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had moved on without her. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ eyes met hers, his expression unreadable. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "For leaving." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." She turned to him, her blue eyes sharp with the weight of it all. "I should’ve come back sooner." Silas’ voice was gentle. "You didn’t have to." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The past pressed down on her, a weight she had tried to escape. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long gone. "I’m not sure I can," she said. Silas’ hand found hers, his fingers warm and sure. "You can," he said. "You always can." She closed her eyes, the weight pressing down on her. "I’m sorry," she whispered. Silas didn’t pull away. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ voice was quiet. "You couldn’t have." She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ fingers tightened around hers. "You did." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze meeting his. "I’m sorry." Silas’ eyes held hers, his expression gentle. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "For leaving." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." The moment hung between them, thick with the weight of years and the unspoken. Aurora finally looked away, her fingers brushing the edge of the photograph on the wall. "I should go," she said. Silas didn’t move. "No." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had moved on without her. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You couldn’t have," he said softly. She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She closed her eyes, the past pressing down on her. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his. "I’m sorry." Silas didn’t smile. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "For leaving you." Silas’ eyes held hers, his expression gentle. "I know." The silence stretched, thick with the unspoken. Aurora finally stepped back, her fingers brushing the menu one last time. "I should go," she said. Silas didn’t move. "No." She hesitated, then turned to face him fully. The weight of it all settled around her, a quiet storm of regret and longing. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm and sure. "You couldn’t have," he said. She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had moved on without her. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ eyes met hers, his expression unreadable. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "For leaving." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." She turned to him, her blue eyes sharp with the weight of it all. "I should’ve come back sooner." Silas’ voice was gentle. "You didn’t have to." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The past pressed down on her, a weight she had tried to escape. The moment she picked it up, she felt the familiar ache in her chest, the kind that came from carrying something too heavy for too long. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable, as she picked at the food, her appetite long forgotten. "You’re still Rory," he said. She looked up at him, her heart pounding. "And you’re still Silas." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You always were," he said. She pulled her hand away, her fingers tingling. "I’m sorry." Silas didn’t smile. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ voice was quiet. "You couldn’t have." She looked at him, her gaze meeting his. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ fingers tightened around hers. "You did." She closed her eyes, the weight pressing down on her. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had moved on without her. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ eyes held hers, his expression gentle. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "For leaving you." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." The moment stretched, thick with the weight of it all. Aurora finally turned away, her fingers brushing the edge of the photograph on the wall. "I should go," she said. Silas didn’t move. "No." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The past pressed down on her, a weight she had tried to escape. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and deliberate. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm and sure. "You couldn’t have," he said softly. She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze meeting his. "I’m sorry." Silas’ eyes held hers, his expression gentle. "For what?" She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "For leaving." Silas didn’t smile. "I know." The silence lingered, thick with the unspoken. Aurora finally stepped back, her fingers brushing the menu one last time. "I should go," she said. Silas didn’t move. "No." She hesitated, then turned to face him fully. The weight of it all settled around her, a quiet storm of regret and longing. "I’m sorry," she said. Silas’ voice was quiet, almost tender. "Don’t be." She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "I should’ve stayed." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You couldn’t have," he said. She pulled her hand away, her fingers tingling. "I could’ve tried." Silas’ voice was firm. "You did." She looked at him, her heart heavy with the weight of it all. "I don’t know if I can." Silas didn’t argue. "Then you won’t." She hesitated, her gaze fixed on the menu. The bar’s quiet hum filled the space between them, a reminder of the life that had moved on without her. The past pressed down on her, a weight she had tried to escape. The moment she picked up the menu, she felt the familiar ache in her chest, the kind that came from years of carrying something too heavy. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. "You’re still Rory," he said. She exhaled, the breath curling around her fingers. "And you’re still Silas." Silas’ hand found hers again, his fingers warm against hers. "You always were," he said. She pulled her hand away, her fingers aching. "I’m sorry." Silas didn’t smile. "Don’t be." She turned to the menu, her fingers tracing the words. The weight of it all pressed down on her, a quiet storm of regret and longing. "I should’ve come back sooner," she said. Silas’ voice was gentle. "You didn’t have to." She hesitated, then reached for the menu again. The past lingered, a weight she had tried to escape. "I’m not sure I can," she said. Silas’ hand found hers, his fingers warm and sure. "You can," he said. "You always can." She exhaled, the breath slow and steady. "I’m sorry," she whispered.