Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8W60H3JGVNS9GC8HVMFS2V

The Raven’s Nest held the quiet of a weeknight, the kind of silence that felt like a held breath. Rory traced the rim of her glass with a fingertip, the condensation cool against her skin. Behind the bar, Silas polished a tumbler with a slow, methodical rhythm, his silver signet ring catching the low light each time his hand turned. The green neon from the sign outside bled through the front window, painting a sickly hue across the old maps on the wall. The door groaned open, letting in a slice of damp London air and the distant murmur of Soho. A man stepped inside, shaking rain from a trench coat. He was around her age, his hair neatly trimmed, his suit too crisp for this place. He hesitated, scanning the room, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. His gaze landed on her. It passed over, then snapped back. A flicker of confusion, then a slow, dawning recognition that tightened something in Rory’s chest. “Aurora?” The name hit the quiet like a stone. Silas didn’t look up, but his polishing stilled for a half-second. Rory kept her face neutral, the cool mask she’d practiced. She took a sip of her drink, the whiskey burning a familiar path. “Liam.” He moved toward the bar, his steps unsure. “My God. Aurora Carter.” He stopped a few feet away, as if approaching a wild animal. “I thought it was you. I’m in town for a merger symposium. I just… I needed a drink away from the hotel crowd. I never expected…” “Small world.” Her voice was flat. “Can I…?” He gestured to the stool beside her. She gave a slight nod. He sat, the leather sighing under his weight. He ordered a gin and tonic from Silas, who served it without a word, his hazel eyes missing nothing. Liam took a long drink. “You look different.” “It’s been years.” “Five. Almost six. Since graduation.” He turned on the stool to face her. “You vanished. One day you were there, top of our torts seminar, the next… poof. No one knew where you went. Your father was tight-lipped. Evan said you’d gone travelling.” At Evan’s name, her fingers tightened around the glass. The small crescent scar on her left wrist seemed to pulse. She didn’t answer. “I heard you left Cardiff. London, obviously.” His eyes swept over her simple black jumper, her jeans, the lack of any professional gloss. “What are you doing here?” “Having a drink.” “I mean… what do you do?” “I deliver food.” She saw the surprise he tried to mask. “For a restaurant in Chinatown. Part-time.” “Delivery.” He repeated the word as if testing its weight. “Aurora, you were going to be a barrister. You were the one who was going to change the world. You argued circles around everyone.” “Plans change.” “Because of Evan?” The question came out soft, almost cautious. She met his eyes then. His were the same warm brown she remembered, but now they held a lawyer’s assessing gleam. “Because of a lot of things.” He swirled his drink. “I saw him last year. At a legal conference in Bristol. He’s a junior partner at Fletcher & Grey now. Married. To a corporate solicitor. He asked about you.” “What did you tell him?” “That I didn’t know. Which was the truth.” He leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “He said you just… left. That things had gotten difficult. He made it sound like you had a breakdown.” A cold laugh escaped her. “Did he.” “I never believed it. Not the breakdown part. But the leaving… that was true. Why, Aurora? You had everything mapped out. Your father’s connections, your grades… you were set.” The weight of the unspoken pressed down. The fear that had been a constant companion in Cardiff, the way Evan’s criticisms had slowly eroded her until she doubted her own mind, the final, terrifying night when his grip had left bruises that matched the old scar on her wrist. The frantic phone call to Eva, the train to London with nothing but a backpack. “The map was wrong,” she said finally. “So you threw it away? You’re delivering noodles?” There was no malice in his voice, just a profound, bewildered disappointment. “It pays the rent. I live upstairs.” He looked toward the ceiling, then back at her, his expression shifting from confusion to something like pity. It was worse than anger. “This is… a bar. You live above a bar.” “It’s quiet.” “Is it?” He gestured around at the empty stools, the pervasive gloom. “Aurora, this is a dead end. You’re smarter than this. You could still go back. Finish your degree. It’s not too late.” “It is for that.” “Why? Because of some… some setback? Everyone has setbacks.” “Not everyone’s setback leaves them afraid to answer their own door.” The words were out before she could stop them, sharp and brittle. He fell silent. The hum of the neon sign filled the space between them. Silas had moved to the other end of the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy. “Evan,” Liam said, the name a conclusion. She didn’t confirm or deny. She drank her whiskey. “He was always… intense,” Liam ventured. “But we all thought you two were solid. The power couple.” “We were a couple. There was a power imbalance.” She set her glass down with a firm click. “It’s done. I’m done with that life.” “And this is the alternative?” His gesture took in the whole bar. “Hiding in the dark?” “I’m not hiding. I’m living. It’s different.” “Is it?” He shook his head, a sad smile touching his lips. “Do you remember our second year? That debate on judicial activism. You tore apart the opposition’s argument in three minutes flat. Professor Davies said you had the most formidable legal mind he’d seen in a decade. I was so jealous. I still am, I think.” The memory was a ghost, vivid but disconnected from the person she was now. That girl had been sure of everything. This woman calculated the quickest exit from any room. “That person isn’t here anymore, Liam.” “I can see that.” He finished his gin. “I just wish I knew what happened to her.” “She grew up. She learned that plans are just wishes, and wishes get broken.” He signalled Silas for another drink, then turned his full attention to her. “What do you do when you’re not delivering food? Do you read? Paint? God, you used to paint beautiful watercolours.” “I think. I observe. I help a friend with his business.” She glanced at Silas, who was watching the door. “It’s complicated.” “It sounds lonely.” “It’s quiet,” she repeated, the word a shield. “Quiet isn’t peace, Aurora.” “And a partnership at a law firm is?” she shot back, a spark of the old fire in her eyes. He flinched. “Touché. It’s… it’s what was expected. What I worked for. It’s secure.” “Secure isn’t peace either.” They sat in a new silence, the kind that acknowledged a chasm too wide to bridge. He was living the life she had fled. She was living a life he couldn’t comprehend. “I miss you,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it. “I miss that version of you. The one who believed she could fix broken systems with a well-argued precedent.” “I miss her too, sometimes.” The admission cost her. “But she wasn’t real. She was an idea. Ideas are fragile.” “People are fragile.” He reached out, as if to touch her hand, but stopped short. “Are you happy?” She considered the question. The flat above the bar was small but hers. Silas’s mentorship was gruff but real. The delivery job was mindless, but it left her brain free to puzzle over the strange requests and coded messages that sometimes came through the bar’s back room. There was a purpose here, shadowy and undefined, but it was her own. “I’m not unhappy,” she said, which was the closest to truth she could offer. He nodded, accepting the boundary. “Will you be here? If I come back to London?” “Maybe. Probably.” He took a card from his wallet, a thick, embossed rectangle. He slid it across the bar. “If you ever need anything. A reference. A friend. I’m… I’m still your friend, Aurora. Even if I don’t understand.” She looked at the card. *Liam Byrne, Solicitor, Byrne & Associates*. It belonged to a different universe. She didn’t pick it up. “Thank you, Liam.” He stood, pulling his coat on. He looked older than he had when he walked in, the confident sheen rubbed away by the dim light and harder truths. “Take care of yourself.” “You too.” He lingered for a moment, his eyes searching her face one last time, as if trying to superimpose the old image over the new. Then he turned and walked out into the rain, the door swinging shut behind him. The silence of the bar deepened, now filled with the ghost of the conversation. Rory stared at the business card on the polished wood. After a minute, Silas limped over and picked it up. He didn’t ask. He simply held it over the small candle on the bar. The flame caught the edge, curling the expensive paper into black ash, which he dropped into an ashtray. “The past has a way of knocking,” he murmured, resuming his polishing. Rory watched the last ember die. “It doesn’t get to come in.” She finished her whiskey, the taste now only of smoke and regret.