AI The dim glow of the green neon sign flickered outside The Raven's Nest, casting erratic shadows on the rain-slicked pavement of Soho. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of aged whiskey and polished oak, the walls a patchwork of faded maps and sepia-toned photographs that whispered of forgotten expeditions. Aurora Carter—Rory to those who knew her before the fractures—wiped down the scarred bar top with a rag that had seen better days. It was a slow Tuesday evening, the kind where the clock above the shelves ticked louder than the handful of patrons nursing their drinks in the corners. Silas had limped off to the back an hour ago, muttering about inventory, leaving Rory to mind the fort. Her shift at Golden Empress had ended early, deliveries light in the drizzle, so she'd come down from her flat upstairs to help out. The familiarity of it grounded her: the clink of glasses, the low hum of a jazz record spinning on the old turntable.
She glanced at the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a silvery reminder of a playground tumble at eight, back when life was scraped knees and endless summers in Cardiff. That girl felt like a ghost now, evaporated in the steam of bad decisions and hurried escapes. Rory poured herself a splash of soda water—no ice, just the fizz to keep her hands busy—and let her bright blue eyes drift to the door. It swung open with a gust of damp night air, and in walked a woman who made Rory's breath catch, sharp as a hook.
Eva. It couldn't be. But it was: the same cascade of curly auburn hair, though longer now, framing a face sharpened by years. Eva's green eyes scanned the room, landing on Rory with a jolt that mirrored her own. She wore a tailored coat, the kind that screamed city professional, heels clicking against the worn floorboards as she approached the bar. Rory's heart thudded, a drumbeat of disbelief and something heavier, like regret uncoiling in her chest.
"Rory?" Eva's voice was the same lilt , Welsh vowels softened by time, but there was an edge to it now, polished and precise. She slid onto a stool, peeling off her gloves with deliberate fingers. "Bloody hell, it is you."
Rory forced a smile, her straight shoulder-length black hair falling forward as she leaned on the bar. Up close, the changes hit harder. Eva's once-freckled cheeks were smooth, makeup flawless , and her posture straight-backed, like she'd traded laughter for boardrooms. No more the scrappy girl who'd shared secrets under Cardiff's dripping oaks. "Eva. God, it's been... what, three years? Four?" Rory's words tumbled out, casual on the surface, but her mind raced . The last time they'd spoken was a frantic phone call, Rory's voice breaking as she explained fleeing Evan, the bruises hidden under long sleeves. Eva had urged her to London, promised to visit. But visits never came.
"Four," Eva confirmed, her gaze flicking over Rory's faded jeans and the simple black tee stained faintly from kitchen spills. "You look... good. Settled." There was a pause, the kind that stretched thin, and Rory wondered if Eva saw the wear in her eyes, the way five-foot-six of determination had bent under the weight of part-time gigs and solitary nights.
Rory busied herself pouring a gin and tonic—Eva's old drink, from uni days when they'd split cabs after lectures, dreaming of lives bigger than Pre-Law drudgery. "Settled's one word for it. What brings you to Soho? Business?" She slid the glass over, the ice clinking like a tentative truce.
Eva's fingers wrapped around it, but she didn't drink. Instead, she traced the rim, her nails manicured in a deep crimson that Rory envied for a split second. "Conference. Legal symposium at the LSE. Thought I'd pop into a bar afterward—needed to unwind. Never expected this." Her laugh was light, but it didn't reach her eyes. Those eyes, once wide with mischief, now held a guarded gleam. Rory remembered the Eva who'd ditched class to hike the Brecon Beacons, boots muddy and spirits high. This Eva looked like she hiked conference corridors now.
The bar's door creaked again, but it was just a regular, an older bloke in a wool cap who nodded at Rory and claimed his usual corner stool. She topped off his pint without a word, the routine a shield. Turning back, she met Eva's stare. "London suits you? Or are you still in Cardiff?"
"Still there. Partner at the firm now—Brendan's old colleague hooked me up." Eva sipped finally, the gin cutting through the air between them . Brendan—Rory's father, the barrister whose disapproval had shadowed her every choice. "Dad mentioned you dropped out. Said you were 'finding yourself' in the big smoke."
Rory's scar itched under her sleeve, a phantom twinge. Finding herself. What a tidy phrase for the unraveling : Evan's fists, the nights locked in her flat, the final dash to the train station with nothing but a rucksack and Eva's voice on the line saying, Come here, Rory. We'll sort it. "Yeah, well, Pre-Law wasn't for me. Delivering dim sum pays the bills." She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, but the words landed flat. The flat above Silas's bar was cheap, tucked away, but it echoed with solitude. Silas himself was a mystery—a grey-streaked auburn-haired man with hazel eyes and a slight limp, his silver signet ring glinting as he poured measures with quiet authority. He'd given her the room no questions asked, his backstory as hidden as the secret room behind the bookshelf. But even his mentorship, sparse as it was, couldn't fill the voids.
Eva tilted her head, studying Rory like a brief she needed to dissect. "Dim sum? Rory Carter, queen of out-of-the-box thinking, slinging takeout?" There was no malice, but the tease carried an undercurrent, a reminder of the girl who'd aced debates and sketched wild escape plans from their sleepy town. Eva set her glass down, the condensation pooling like unshed tears. "I thought you'd be... I don't know, conquering the world by now. Or at least law school in London."
The jazz record scratched to a halt, leaving a hush that amplified the rain pattering against the windows. Rory felt the tension coil in her gut, the unspoken regrets bubbling up. Why hadn't she reached out more? Why had Eva faded into silence after that call? "Life's not a straight line, Ev. Evan... it messed me up. More than I let on." The name hung there, bitter as oversteeped tea. She hadn't said it aloud in months, but here in the Nest's amber light, it slipped free.
Eva's expression softened, just a fraction, but her fingers tightened on the glass. "I know. You told me. I should've come sooner." She glanced away, toward the photographs on the wall—grainy images of spies or sailors, Rory could never tell. Silas collected them, relics from his own shadowed past. "Work swallowed me. The firm's relentless. Weddings, promotions—everyone's moving on, you know? I got engaged last year. To Marcus . Solicitor, stable as they come."
Engaged. The word landed like a stone in still water, rippling through Rory. She pictured Eva in white, vows exchanged in some sunlit Cardiff chapel, while she'd been dodging puddles on a delivery bike. "That's brilliant, Ev. He sounds... perfect ." But the praise tasted hollow. Perfect for the Eva who'd always played it safe, who'd urged Rory to stay in Pre-Law while she herself climbed the ladder. Rory remembered their last real fight, years back, over coffee in a cramped uni café: Eva calling her reckless for dating Evan, Rory snapping that safe was just another cage.
Eva drained her gin, the ice shifting with a clink. "He's good. Boring, maybe, but good." She met Rory's eyes again, and there it was—the flicker of the old fire, the girl who'd once dared Rory to sneak into a forbidden quarry at midnight. "But I miss this. Us. The chaos. You were always the spark, Rory. What happened to her?"
Rory's throat tightened. The spark? Buried under shifts and scars, under the fear that one wrong move would shatter her fragile rebuild. She thought of Silas, limping in from his hidden back room earlier, his neatly trimmed beard framing a knowing smile as he handed her a key for the upstairs lock. "World's full of locks," he'd said, his voice gravelly with unspoken histories. "Pick the right ones." Was this a lock? Eva, here, peeling back the years like old wallpaper.
Before Rory could answer, the door to the back swung open, and Silas emerged, his six-foot-one frame filling the space. His grey-streaked auburn hair caught the low light, and he favored his left leg with that familiar hitch as he approached. "Evening, ladies. Didn't know we had a reunion tonight." His hazel eyes assessed them, sharp as a blade, the silver signet ring tapping the bar as he rested a hand there. He knew Rory's story in fragments—enough to offer a nod when nightmares kept her pacing the flat—but Eva was new territory.
Eva straightened, her professional mask slipping back. "Just old friends catching up. Silas, is it? Rory's mentioned the place."
"Has she now?" Silas poured himself a finger of scotch, no ice, his movements economical. He glanced at Rory, a subtle arch of brow that said, Your call. She nodded faintly, grateful for the interruption, the way he anchored the room without trying.
The conversation veered then, safer waters. Eva asked about the bar's history—the maps, the photos—and Silas obliged with vague tales of "adventurers he'd known," his spy days veiled in half-truths. Rory listened, chiming in with bits about Soho's underbelly, the Golden Empress's spicy secrets. But beneath it, the tension simmered. Eva's laughter came easier with Silas's dry wit, but her eyes kept returning to Rory, searching for the girl who'd once vowed they'd conquer London together.
As the hour crept past closing, the other patrons trickled out, leaving the three of them in the bar's hush. Silas excused himself with a polite limp toward the kitchen, leaving fresh mugs of tea—strong, Welsh-style, a nod to their roots. Eva sipped hers, steam curling up like ghosts of what-ifs.
"I should've called," Eva said suddenly, voice low . "After you got here. I told myself you needed space, but really ... I was scared. Scared you'd blame me for pushing you away from home. Or that I'd drag you down with my own mess." Her words cracked open the regrets, raw and real. Marcus was safe, but safe meant no more midnight drives, no more Rory's wild ideas pulling her into the fray.
Rory reached across the bar, hesitating before touching Eva's hand. The warmth was startling , a bridge over the years. "I blamed everyone at first. Dad, Mum, Evan. Myself most." Her blue eyes held steady, the scar on her wrist a quiet testament . "But you got me out. That's not nothing."
Eva's grip tightened, then released. "And now? Still delivering, living above a bar run by a mystery man?" There was no judgment, just the ache of divergence—the paths they'd taken, the ones left untrod.
Silas reappeared then, flipping chairs onto tables with efficient grunts. "Time to lock up, unless you're planning an all-nighter." His tone was light, but his eyes lingered on them, mentor's intuition sensing the fragile mending.
Eva stood, coat draped over her arm. "I should go. Marcus is waiting—early meeting tomorrow." She hugged Rory awkwardly over the bar, the embrace brief but fierce. "Don't vanish again. Promise?"
Rory nodded, the weight of time settling like dust on the bar top. "Promise." As Eva slipped out into the rain, the green neon buzzed farewell, and Rory turned to Silas, who was watching with quiet authority.
"Old ghosts?" he asked, pouring her a nightcap without asking.
"Something like that." She took it, the burn chasing the regret. The girl with the spark wasn't gone—just dimmed, waiting for the right flicker to reignite. In the Nest's shadows, with maps of untraveled worlds on the walls, Rory felt the pull of possibility, tentative but real. Time had carved its marks, but perhaps, just perhaps, not all bridges were burned.