AI The bell over the door jingles as Aurora pushes through, the smell of damp rain clinging to her jacket like a second skin. It’s a Thursday evening, late enough that the bar’s hum has settled into something softer—jazz filtered through a dusty speaker, the clink of a glass, the distant murmur of two regulars arguing over the football results. She pauses, one hand still on the door, because for a second, the green neon sign—the *Raven’s Nest * sign, flickering like a dying moth—fools her. It’s not that she’s never been here before; she’s lived above it for three months now, the creaky stairs to her flat a familiar shuffle at the end of her delivery routes. But tonight, with the rain pattering on the windows and the air thick with the tang of lager and pipe smoke, something about the place unspools the thread of her usual calm.
She sets down the delivery bag at her feet. The takeaway from Yu-Fei’s is still warm, though the owner, Yu-Fei, had given her a sideways look when Aurora had asked for extra ginger in the curry. “You look like you need it,” the woman had said, winking, and Aurora had mumbled something about running in the rain. The ginger’s a habit now—every meal, since the night Evan had thrown a whiskey glass at the wall, shards flying over her shoulder. She’d flinched, but not from the noise. From the way the light caught the glass, the way he’d risen, red-faced, and said, *Don’t you dare flinch at me *, and she’d fled, into the night, with only a coat and a phone full of Eva’s texts. *Come to London. I’ll fix it.*
The bar’s dim, the walls a mosaic of black-and-white photos—some weathered, some sharp—and maps that curl at the edges, pins marking places like *Prague * and *Dublin * and *Cardiff, South Wales *. Aurora’s eyes land on one of the photos half a second before she hears the cloth hit the bar.
“Rory?”
Her blood goes cold. The name is a bullet, but not the kind Evan used. It’s the kind Eva used, the kind she used to say like it was a secret code, like the *real * her was locked away under the alias. She turns.
Silas is standing behind the bar, his auburn hair streaked with grey, a rag in his hand. His beard is neatly trimmed, as always, but his shoulders are hunched , and when he moves, his left leg drags slightly , the limp more pronounced tonight. He’s wearing a black button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his signet ring glints on his right hand. They’ve crossed paths before—twice, maybe three times—since she moved in. He’d nod at her when she came up from deliveries, she’d nod back, and that was it. But now, he’s looking at her like he’s seen a ghost.
“Silas,” she says, and her voice is higher than she intends. She crosses her arms, the scar on her left wrist—a thin, white crescent from when she was six, chasing a butterfly into a bramble bush—prickling under her sleeve. “Didn’t think I’d see you behind the bar.”
He blinks, the ghostliness lifting a little, and sets the rag down. “Thought I’d see *you * delivering, not standing in the doorway like you ’ve seen a poltergeist. You usually take the stairs from the kitchen, right? The one with the rickety step.”
She forces a smile. “Got stuck in traffic. Yu-Fei’s curry can wait, but… rain.”
He nods, like he understands. Maybe he does. The bar’s a front for more than drinks—Aurora knows that. Half the time, she hears voices in the secret room behind the bookcase, low and urgent, maps spread out on a table that looks like it’s seen two wars. Silas is a spymaster in a barman’s apron, and she’s a delivery girl in a world of ghosts.
“Want a drink?” he asks, and before she can decline, he adds, “On the house. It’s been… a while.”
She hesitates. The last time she’d been in the bar, before moving in, she’d been sixteen , or seventeen, maybe eighteen, and she’d stolen a bottle of gin from him. *“Thought you ’d grown out of this,”* he’d said, not angry, just tired. *“Thought you 'd gone to Cardiff, to be a barrister’s daughter, not a thief.”* She’d run then, too—from Evan, from her father’s lectures, from the way the world felt like a pressure cooker . Eva had found her in a hostel, crying into a hotel towel, and had said, *Let’s go to London. Let’s start over.*
And here she is, three years later, starting over in a city that smells like rain and regret.
“Okay,” she says, and sits on a stool at the end of the bar. The wood is polished, cool against her jeans. “One drink. Make it something strong.”
He nods, turns to the tap. The sound of beer being poured fills the silence , and Aurora studies him—the lines around his eyes, the way his hands move, steady and sure, like he’s used to holding a gun more than a bottle opener. *Retired spymaster *, the rumor goes. *Botched operation in Prague . Left a limp, left MI6.* She’d never asked him about it. He never talks about the bar, or his past.
“Eva says you ’re good at numbers,” he says, sliding the glass over. It’s a tumbler of whiskey, neat, with a lemon twist on the rim. “Says you could out-calculate a banker. Says you ’re the reason she got into accounting, ‘cause you made it look easy.”
Aurora’s throat tightens. Eva. She hasn’t heard that name in two years. Not since the day she’d left, with only a backpack and a phone that died halfway to London. She’d sent a single text: *Sorry. Can’t come back.* And then she’d deleted the thread, deleted the contact, deleted any trace of herself from Cardiff. Evan had found her texts, had said, *You’re running from everything, aren’t you ? Just like your father.*
“She hasn’t changed,” she says, taking a sip of the whiskey. It burns, but not in the way Evan’s anger did . It’s a good pain, sharp and clear. “Still thinks I have all the answers.”
Silas chuckles, a low sound. “She was always the question. You were the answer.” He pauses, wiping the bar again, slower this time. “I used to think you ’d be a barrister. All sharp edges and quick tongue, arguing cases in front of judges. Brendan would brag about you , you know. Said you were the only one in the family with sense. ‘Aurora’s going to fix this country,’ he’d say. Like the country needed fixing. Like *you * could fix it.”
Aurora’s fingers tighten around the glass. “He stopped bragging after I flunked out of Cardiff. Said I’d ‘embarrassed the family.’”
Silas sets the rag down. “You didn’t flunk out. You *walked away *. Left before finals, right? Packed a bag, called Eva and said, ‘Let’s go.’”
She meets his eyes. “You knew about that?”
“Word travels. In these circles.” He gestures vaguely at the bar, the maps, the shadowy back room. “I didn’t know why, though. Thought you were just… young. Stupid. Thought you ’d come back, once you realized London wasn’t a fairy tale.”
“It’s not.”
He nods. “Evan, then. That’s what you get for dating footballers. Arrogant, entitled, think they can break you and fix you with a wink.”
She flinches, and he sees it. His face softens, just a little. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”
Aurora laughs, bitter and wet. “Who does, though? Eva could’ve told you I’m a mess. She *did * tell you , once. At that party, the one in Cardiff, after Evan called me a drunk. She said, ‘Rory’s been running since she was six. The brambles, the ghost in the woods, Evan… she just doesn’t stop.’” She takes another sip of whiskey. “Turns out she was right. I can’t even stop running from myself.”
Silas is quiet for a long time. The jazz record ends, and he flicks the switch on the speaker, putting on a new one—something softer, piano and strings. “You know, I once told you something ,” he says, and his voice is low, like he’s remembering . “I said, ‘Rory, you can’t outrun your past. It’s not a mountain. It’s a shadow. It follows you , but you can turn around and face it. Or you can run, and it’ll be there when you get tired.’”
She stares at him. “You said that. When I was sixteen. When I stole the gin.”
He nods. “You were so angry, Rory. At your father, at the world, at yourself. I thought… maybe you ’d use that anger. Instead of running from it.”
“I tried,” she says, and the words come out raw, like she’s never said them before. “I went to therapy. For a month. Evan found the bills, said I was ‘wasting money on shrinks.’ Said I was ‘broken’ and he’d ‘fixed me.’ And then he broke me again, and again, ‘cause he knew I’d come back.”
Silas’ hand hovers over the bar, like he wants to touch her, but he doesn’t. “You should’ve come to me. I would’ve… done something .”
“You’re a barman, Silas. A *retired * one. You can’t fix everything.”
“I fixed *something * in Prague , once,” he says, and for the first time, his voice cracks. “Or I tried. But it didn’t matter. I still got shot. I still got a limp. I still got… this.” He taps his temple. “The ghosts never really leave, Rory. You just learn to see them differently.”
Aurora thinks of Evan’s face, red and twisted, of the way the beer had spilled over the bar when he’d thrown the glass. She thinks of her father’s voice, cold and disappointed: *You’ll never amount to anything *. She thinks of the brambles, the way they’d scratched her wrist, the way she’d laughed, covered in blood, because it had hurt so good.
“I’m not running anymore,” she says, and her voice is so quiet, she’s not sure he hears her. But he does.
He nods. “Good. Because the world’s still broken. And you … you ’re the only person I know who can break it back into something better.”
The bell jingles again, and a group of tourists files in, talking loudly. Aurora stands up, grabbing her delivery bag. “I should go. Yu-Fei’s waiting.”
Silas slides a business card across the bar. It’s black, with a raven printed on the front, no name, no number. “If you ever want to talk about it. Not the bar, not the spies. Just… you . And me. And the girl who stole my gin.”
She takes the card, her fingers brushing his. His hand is warm, calloused, like he’s held a lot of guns. “I’ll call you .”
He smiles. “I’ll be here.”
She turns, the card tucked into her jacket, and walks toward the door. The bell jingles behind her, but for the first time in years, she doesn’t look back. The rain has stopped, and the street is lit by sodium lamps, casting long shadows. She takes a deep breath, and for the first time, it fills her lungs without burning.
Somewhere behind her, the jazz record fades out, and the bar settles into silence . But Aurora doesn’t feel it. She’s already moved on—from the ghosts, from the past, from the girl who ran. She’s just Aurora now. And maybe, for the first time, she’s ready to stay.