Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9NWZCQ06ETE95K6MVBYWH

The door jingled, but not the usual chime—too loud, too fast. Rory looked up from the stack of delivery orders spread across the bar's oak counter. The green neon sign flickered above the door, casting its usual sickly glow on the walls. She shouldered the last box, balanced it on one hip, and turned. "Yu-Fei says you're late," she called, but her voice was lighter than she meant it to be. The person in the doorway froze. It was her. Rory's breath hitched. Eva's hair, once cropped close around her ears, fell in loose waves down her back, streaked with strands of silver. She'd always had the kind of beauty that felt like a secret—sharp cheekbones, a smile that reached her eyes before she even meant to smile. Now her eyes were shaded with tiredness, the skin around them creased like old paper. Her coat was a heavy fur thing, new, expensive, not the patched leather jacket she used to wear. Eva's gaze flickered past Rory to the back of the bar, where a man with grey-streaked auburn hair and a neat beard stood polishing a glass. Silas. He nodded once, slow, as if he'd been expecting her. Or dreading her. "Silas," she said, finally, her voice a rustle of leaves. "Sit," Silas said, without turning. His left leg, the one that limped, thudded a little on the floor. He poured two glasses of something amber—Scotch, probably, the stuff he only brought out when the clientele was dangerous. "Rory'll fix you a drink. Won't you, Rory?" Rory set the box down, her shoulder aching from the plastic strap. "You want a beer?" Eva's smile was brittle. "Whiskey, please. Neat." Silas grunted. "Bourbon. Not that swill Yu-Fei passes off as whiskey." He rotated the glass in his hand, the silver ring glinting. "Sit." Rory said nothing. She pulled a stool from the counter, slid it over. Eva's hand hovered near the edge, then she sat, her coat sliding off her shoulders. The fur caught on a nail in the wood, and Rory watched her yank it free. "You look good," Eva said, after a beat. Rory touched her left wrist, the scar thin and white beneath her sleeve. "You don't." Eva laughed, but it was a harsh sound. "Funny. That's what I was going to say." She picked up the glass Silas set down in front of her, took a sip. "Takes some getting used to. Not seeing you in Cardiff." Rory's throat tightened. Cardiff. The flat above Evan's apartment, the way he'd scream when she forgot to buy milk, the cut on her lip when she'd tried to leave. She'd packed a bag, taken the train to London at three in the morning, her phone buzzing with texts from Eva—*Come. I'll hide you.* She hadn't called. Not for two years. "You shoulda called," she said. Eva's fingers stilled. "Shoulda. Trust issues, y'know? Ran out on the only people who ever gave a damn about you." "Better to run than stay," Rory said, but her voice was weak. She looked around the bar, at the map of London on the wall, the photo of Silas in uniform—younger, leaner, the limp not yet pronounced. "You didn't think I'd come back." "Figured you'd burned the bridges," Eva said. She set the glass down, too hard. It rang against the wood. "Burned *everything*." Rory's breath caught. The scar on her wrist itched. "I didn't burn anything. I just... needed to leave." Eva leaned forward, her hands on the counter. "Needed? Or you couldn't handle it when it got real? When the good parts started to hurt worse than the bad?" Silas shifted behind them, his glasses glinting. "Enough, Eva." Eva didn't look away. "No, let her talk. You told *him* the truth, didn't you? You told *everyone*." Rory stared at the scar. "It's not a big deal." "No," Eva said, quiet now. "It's not. Not compared to..." She trailed off. She reached into her coat, pulled out a photo. It was crumpled, edges frayed. Rory recognized the faces—hers, Eva, a group of friends from uni, laughing outside a pub. Evan was there, too, his arm around her shoulders, a smirk on his face. "We all thought you were dead." Rory's hand flew to her mouth. "What?" Eva nodded. "That night you disappeared. I went to the police. They said you'd run off with a drug dealer. I didn't believe it. I waited. And waited. Then..." She looked away. "Then I got a letter. From a lawyer. Said you'd died in a car crash. In Oxfordshire. A stolen vehicle. They never found your body. Just your phone." Rory's vision blurred. She hadn't known. She'd never known. Evan had kept it from her—burned the letters, the emails, the calls from Eva. "Why didn't you..." "Why didn't I fight harder?" Eva said. "I married, Rory. Had kids. Moved to Manchester. I couldn't keep chasing a ghost. Especially not when the ghost was the one who left me holding the pieces." Rory stood, knocking the stool over. "I'm sorry." Eva stood, too, but slowly, like her knees were tired. "Sorry's a lousy currency, Rory. You can't spend it on the years we lost." She picked up the photo, tucked it back into her coat. "I came here because I needed to know. You left, so I thought you owed me that. But now I know. You're just... you. Changed. But not *that* changed." "What do you want from me?" Rory said. Eva smiled, a small, sad thing. "I want you to look at me and see *me*. Not the girl who left with a suitcase and a broken heart. Not the woman who married a man who didn't love her. Just Eva. The one who used to sneak into your flat to watch scary movies and eat too much junk food. The one who held you when you cried after Evan took your laptop. The one who..." She paused. The bar's silence hung thick. Rory saw it then—the way Eva's eyes still watered when she thought of Evan, the way her hands trembled when she touched her wedding band. "I'm sorry I didn't fight," she said. "I was scared. Scared he'd find me. Scared I'd mess it up." Eva stepped closer. "You didn't mess it up, Rory. We did. We all did. But we're still here, y'know? Still breathing. Still trying." Rory nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks. She reached out, touched Eva's hand. "I missed you." Eva squeezed back. "I missed you, too." Silas cleared his throat. "Yu-Fei'll be closing up soon. You girls want to take it to the flat? I'll stay here and lock up." Rory wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Yeah. That sounds good." Eva turned to leave, then paused. "Rory?" She looked up. "Come visit," Eva said. "Manchester's not so bad. The kids love stories about dragons. And you can teach them to pick locks. You were the best." Rory managed a laugh. "I can't pick locks anymore. Silas trained me out of it." Eva smiled. "You can still teach them. Some things don't change." Rory stood, her legs wobbly. "I'll come. Soon." Eva smiled. "Even if it's six weeks. I'll be here." The call ended. Rory looked up at Silas, who was watching her. "You knew," she said. He nodded. "Eva called. Last week. Said she needed to see you. Wanted the truth." Rory took a sip of beer. "You think it's too late?" Silas grunted. "Life's not a novel, Rory. It doesn't end at the last page. Sometimes, you just have to turn it." Rory smiled. She looked at the scar on her wrist, the one from the kitchen knife Evan had thrown. It didn't hurt anymore. Not really. She reached for her coat, slung it over her shoulder. "Let's go home." Silas stood, his limp more pronounced now. "Home," he agreed. They walked out of the bar, the green neon sign fading behind them. Rory could feel the photo in her coat pocket, the one of her and Eva and the group of friends, and she smiled. It was a start.