Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB3XJY8VGJW09H7VZ1QE03

The bell above the door jingles, high and thin, cutting through the murmur of The Raven's Nest. Rory glances up from the glass she's buffing, her wrist flicking as the cloth scrubs a smudge from the rim until it catches the light. Cardiff blue eyes narrow, expecting the usual: a builder on a lunch break, a student needing directions, Silas' regulars who think the word "sir" is a compliment. But it's not. A woman stands in the doorway, half-shadowed by the neon green sign. Rory freezes. The woman's hair is shorter now, cropped close to her head, streaked with something the color of wet asphalt—maybe silver, maybe just the light. Her face is a map of lines Rory doesn't recognize: a furrow between her brows, a crease at the corner of her eyes that wasn't there before. She's wearing a coat that looks too expensive, a tailored thing in charcoal, and her shoes click on the creaky wooden floor like she's not used to them. "Rory Carter," the woman says, and her voice is a lower, rougher version of the one that used to sing in the rain at Roath Park. Rory's throat tightens. She sets the glass down hard enough to make a *clink* that echoes. "Eva," she says, and it comes out a question. Eva steps further in, her coat slipping off one shoulder. She pulls it up, self-conscious, and Rory notices the ring—a fat gold band, engraved with initials, sitting on her left finger. The nail polish is chipped at the edges, like she's been biting it. "Took you long enough to recognize me," Eva says, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes. Rory's hand flies to her left wrist, where the crescent moon scar peeks out from her sleeve. She hadn't thought about it in years—not since Evan asked what it was, and she told him a factory accident, and he laughed, hard, like it was a joke. "You look... different," she says, because it's true, even if it's the stupidest thing she's ever said. Eva snorts. "Yeah. Me too." She nods at the bar, at the stools lined up along the oak counter. "Mind if I sit?" Rory moves before she can think, sliding a stool out. The wood groans under Eva's weight. Rory leans against the counter, her fingers wrapping around a nearly full glass of ale—Silas' usual. She doesn't take a drink. "Silas said you worked here now," Eva says, tracing the rim of her glass. The beer is dark, murky, and Rory realizes she's poured it for herself, without asking. "Deliveries mostly," she says. "Golden Empress. He let me crash upstairs when I couldn't sleep at night." Eva's gaze flicks up, then away. "Right. You always had a knack for crashing." Rory's spine stiffens. The "always" hangs in the air, thick with unspoken things. "You always had a knack for saying the wrong thing," she fires back, before she can stop herself. Eva's eyes darken. "At least I *said* things. You just... ran." The word hangs, sharp. Rory's thumb rubs the scar on her wrist. Evan—*Evan*—had called her a coward when she left. *You can't run forever*, he'd screamed, his hand around her throat. *Coward*, *weak*, *useless*. But Eva never called her that. Not even when Rory vanished, three years gone, leaving only a postcard from Brighton and a text that said *Sorry* before the number went dead. "I didn't run from you," she says, and it's true. She ran from Evan, from the rent collector, from the mirror that showed her a stranger. But she didn't run from Eva. She ran *from the memory* of what they'd had—of the way Eva would laugh at her bad jokes, of the way she'd hold Rory's hand when she had nightmares about her father's texts. She ran because she was terrified, back then, that Eva would look at her and see the mess she was, and walk away. Eva's lip twitches. "You didn't run from much, did you?" Rory's chest tightens. She pushes off the counter, strides to the taps, and pours herself a glass of water. The ice clinks. "What d'you want, Eva? You found me. You gonna tell me you're here to rub my nose in how perfect your life is? How you got married, had kids, a house with a garden? Go ahead. I can take it." Eva sets down her glass. "I don't care about my *garden*," she says, her voice breaking. "I care about the girl who used to sneak into my room and read me poetry when I couldn't sleep. I care about the girl who promised we'd never let anyone take us down. I care about the *friend* who didn't have the decency to say goodbye." The words hit Rory like a fist. She leans against the bar, her knees suddenly wobbly. "I said goodbye," she whispers. "I didn't know how to *not* say goodbye and still be alive." Eva is on her feet in a second, her hand on Rory's arm. Her touch is warm, familiar, like coming home after a long winter. "Oh, love," she says, and the nickname is back, soft and fond, and Rory's eyes sting. "You never had to say goodbye to me." Rory pulls away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "How long have you been in London?" she asks, changing the subject. It's easier to talk about shoes than about hearts. "Three weeks," Eva says. "Divorce. Kids—Christopher and Lila—stayed with their dad. I couldn't... look at them without seeing... him. So I left." Rory nods. She remembers the feeling, the way the walls close in when you're reminded of someone who broke you. "I get it," she says. Eva shakes her head. "No, you don't. You left. I stayed. What's the same?" Rory opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. There's no answer, not really. They're two people, separated by time and fear and the choices they made, and all the words in the world can't bridge that gap. A shadow falls over the bar. Silas stands in the doorway, his auburn beard catching the neon light, his limp evident as he steps closer. He nods at them, once, like he's saying *I see you*, and then he moves to the jukebox, selecting a record—something slow, jazz, the kind that feels like old silk. "I heard a commotion," he says, sliding into the stool beside Rory. He picks up her water glass, takes a sip, and sets it down. "Eva. Long time no see." Eva's expression softens. "Silas. You look... exactly the same." He chuckles. "Thanks. Took me decades to perfect the 'I don't care if you broke my knee' look." He nods at her hand. "Still married?" Eva hesitates, then pulls off the ring, holding it up. The gold is dull, scuffed. "Divorced. Three weeks ago." Silas nods. "Good. He was a fool." Rory snorts. "Speak for yourself." Silas looks at her, his hazel eyes warm. "You're still a firecracker, you know that?" She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. It's a real smile, the kind that reaches her blue eyes, and for a second, she's 16 again, standing in Eva's backyard, laughing as Silas—old, with a gun and a scar and a secret—teaches them to shoot wine bottles. "You gonna tell us why you ran, or are we gonna wait until midnight?" Eva asks, but her tone is gentle, not accusatory. Rory takes a breath. "Evan. His dad was a judge. Powerful. I... I got pregnant. He found out. He made me get an abortion. Then he started hitting me. I didn't know who to turn to. I was so scared—of him, of the police, of... of being alone. So I took the next train to London. And I didn't call. Because what was I gonna say? *Hey, I messed up, and now I'm broke, and I'm sleeping in a closet?*" She laughs, wet and shaky, and Eva takes her hand. "I should've called," Rory says. "I should've kept trying. But I was scared you'd think I was weak." Eva squeezes her hand. "I never thought you were weak. I thought you were *brave*. Running from him, starting over. That's the opposite of weak." Rory looks down at their hands, intertwined, and remembers the last time she held Eva's hand—at the station, before she left. Eva had pressed a locket into her palm, a photo of them inside, and said *Call me when you can*, and Rory had nodded, because she couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't bear to see the look in her eyes when she realized Rory was leaving for good. "I have the locket," she says, surprising herself. Eva's face lights up. "Really?" Rory nods. "I kept it. Under my floorboard. I looked at it every night." Silas stands, stretching. "I'll leave you two to it. But Rory—" he pauses, "—close the back door when you're done. The wind's picking up." He walks away, the jukebox humming now, a slow tune that makes the beer slosh in the glasses. The bar feels quieter, cozier, like a secret. "You know," Eva says, "I've thought about you every single day." Rory's throat burns. "I know." Eva sighs. "We should get coffee. Tomorrow. Or lunch. Or... something. Just us." Rory smiles. "Yeah. We should." They sit in silence for a while, listening to the music, the hum of the bar, the sound of their own hearts beating. The scar on Rory's wrist itches, but she doesn't mind. It's a reminder, now, not of pain, but of the way people can come back—broken, but still there. Eva stands, gathering her coat. "I should go. The train's at six." Rory stands too. "I'll walk you to the station." Eva nods. "Good." They step into the night, the neon green sign of The Raven's Nest glowing behind them, a small, steady light. Rory's shoulder brushes Eva's, and for a second, they're 16 again, walking home from the movies, late, talking about the future like it's a promise. It still is. For now.