Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAR3NHQMCF60GMV1W8KP4W

The Raven’s Nest hums with the murmur of drunkards and the clink of whiskey glasses. The green neon sign above the door bleeds through the smudged window, painting the wet pavement outside in sickly light. Rory Carter is behind the bar, wiping down a sticky mahogany counter with a rag that reeks of lemon and gin. Her hair, still black but faded at the roots, is pulled back with a rubber band that’s seen better days. The scar on her left wrist—crescent-shaped, a ghost from a childhood fall off a tree—glints as she twists the rag. Yu-Fei, the restaurant owner, called an hour ago. *“Rory, rush. Big order to Covent Garden. Doritos—*a lot*—and beer. Don’t be late or I’ll feed you to the dragon maps.”* The dragon maps are the framed prints on the walls, curled at the edges, labeled in faded ink. Rory doubts Yu-Fei actually owns a dragon, but the woman’s threats are sharp enough to count. She checks her watch—20 past nine—and grabs her jacket, slinging it over her arm. Leaves the rag on the bar, sticky residue smearing across the wood. The bell above the door jingles. Rory pauses, half-glancing up. A woman stands there, rain beading on her coat, blocking the green light. She’s taller than Rory remembers, broad-shouldered, hair cut shorter than a boy’s, streaked with silver at the temples. Her face is a puzzle—familiar bones, a mouth that’s set too firm, eyes that narrow like she’s trying to place a voice. Rory’s throat tightens. *Not here.* Not after— “Rory?” The name comes out as a question, rough. The woman steps farther into the bar, shaking rain from her coat. Neon light flickers over her: hazel eyes, a split lip, a small tattoo of a raven on her right cheekbone, peeking over her ear. *Oh.* Oh. Rory’s hands freeze around her jacket lapel. Eva. *Eva Morgan.* They’d been inseparable at Cardiff University—shared a bed, a bottle of cheap wine, a dream of moving to Paris together. Then Rory left Evan, the one with the bruise on her wrist and the voice that cracked when he lied. Then Eva sent that postcard—*Come. I can help. Safe.* And Rory took the train, left everything behind. Except Eva. Eva pushes a strand of silver-streaked hair behind her ear. “You… you look smaller. Like a kid who forgot to grow.” Rory’s mouth opens. Closes. She grabs the rag, dabs at the bar again, too hard. The lemon stings her nose. “You look like you’ve been *fighting*,” she says. Not a question. Eva has always been a fighter—kicked a policeman once for making a comment about Rory’s skirt. Eva snorts. “Fighting’s the only thing that keeps the dead quiet. C’mon, sit. I bought you a drink.” She nods to the corner table, where a half-empty whiskey glass sits, condensation pooling on the table. Rory hesitates. The bar’s too loud, the rain too loud, the way Eva says *I bought you a drink* too soft. She steps closer, eyeing the glass. “You didn’t know I’d be here.” “Figured. Silas talks. About you. Sometimes.” Eva’s voice drops. “He doesn’t talk much these days. Says the world’s too loud for secrets.” Rory’s jaw tightens. Silas. The former spymaster, the man who taught her to read a room, who fixed the boiler when her radiator exploded, who never asked questions—at least, not out loud. He’d found her in London, lost and shivering, and said, “Flat above the bar’s free. Work three nights a week here. We call it even.” Even. As if chasing down debtors and delivering dumplings could pay back a man who gave her a roof. “Silas still limps when he climbs stairs. Told him to get a cane. He said a cane makes you look like a *spymaster*.” She sits, hard, the chair scraping the floor. Eva slid the whiskey glass over; Rory wraps her hands around it, warm through the condensation. Eva leans forward, elbows on the table. “How’s the delivery gig? Still delivering Doritos to drunks?” “Better than law school. No essays. No *Evan*.” The words come out sharper than she means. Eva flinches. Rory’s chest tightens. *Sorry. I didn’t mean—* Eva shakes her head. “I know. He was a piece of work. Your dad… Brendan. He called me after you left. Said you’d been crying for three days. Said you’d hidden in your room, wouldn’t eat, and when he tried to talk to you, you said, *‘He breaks things. And then he says he’s sorry. And I believe him. I always do.’*” Her voice cracks. “I took that postcard and I drove to Cardiff. Sat outside your flat for three hours. Watched a car pull up—Evan, with a flower. You let him in. I drove home.” Rory’s throat burns. She takes a drink of whiskey, too fast. It burns her chest. “You should have tried harder. I would have—” “*You couldn’t have*.” Eva’s voice is quiet, but fierce. “You were broken, Rory. Like a record scratch. I didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if I *wanted* to fix it. What if fixing it meant you stopped being *you*?” She pauses, stares at the table. “You were so *alive* back then. Like the world was a story you were writing, and you’d just found the best chapter.” Rory stares at her. The world a story. She used to write poetry—bad, sappy stuff, about stars and sunsets. Evan laughed at her, once. Said poets were for people who didn’t have to *live*. She stopped writing. Stopped singing. Stopped being alive, by degrees. “You still write?” Eva asks. Rory blinks. “No. Why?” Eva taps the scar on her own wrist—thinner, paler than Rory’s. “I got into a fight in a bar in Dublin. A man called me a ‘stupid Welsh girl.’ He grabbed my wrist. I broke his nose with a beer bottle. The nurse asked if I needed stitches. I said, *‘No. My sister would have.’*” Rory’s hand flies to her throat. There, against her skin, is a silver chain—thin, delicate, a tiny locket. She’d forgotten she was wearing it. Evan had given it to her, on their sixth month anniversary. *“For my angel,”* he’d said. She’d worn it every day until the night he hit her, and she’d taken it off, dropped it in the Thames, and watched it sink. *“Lost,”* she’d told Yu-Fei, who’d handed her a rag and said, *“Good. Get another one. Better.”* “I still have the locket,” she says, stupidly. Eva smiles, wet and fragile. “Me too. Inside, there’s a photo. Of us. In the park, your birthday. We were 19. You’d just aced your history exam, and you were eating a doughnut, and you looked like you could conquer the world.” Rory’s vision blurs. She looks down at the whiskey glass. “I’m sorry I didn’t write. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m sorry I—” “—left everything behind?” Eva finishes. “I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t chase you. I stayed in Cardiff, and I became a teacher. Tried to save kids from the same things you saved me from. And… it worked. For a while. But they start to see you. The one who flinches when someone raises their voice. The one who still has nightmares about men with hands. And I can’t save them. Not if I’m hiding from my own ghosts.” A loud crash from the kitchen. Rory startles. Yu-Fei’s voice: *“Rory! You said you’d be here in ten minutes! The Doritos—*hurry*!”* Rory stands, knocking over her chair. She fumbles for her jacket, but stops. “I have to go. But—” Eva stands too, quick. “Call me. Sometime. Not Silas. Not the bar. *You*.” She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, slides it across the table. A phone number, written in neat, looping script. “I’ll wait. For a month. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come to London. And I’ll *drag* you to Paris. We can write that story. Together.” Rory takes the paper, her fingers brushing Eva’s. They both flinch, like it’s an electric shock. “Go,” Eva says, pushing her toward the door. “Before Yu-Fei sends a mob after you. And… Rory? You don’t have to be a hero anymore. Just… *you*.” The bell jingles again. Rory steps outside, rain hitting her face. She tucks the paper into her jacket pocket, next to the scar. The neon sign blares green, washing the street in sickness. She pulls out the whiskey glass, takes one last sip. The whiskey burns, but it’s warm, deep in her chest. Somewhere, a clock chimes. Ten o’clock. She turns, walks down the street, toward the restaurant, toward the flat above the bar, toward Silas’ quiet nods and Yu-Fei’s threats. The paper in her pocket grows heavy. She smiles. Just a little.