AI The chime above the door announced Rory’s arrival, a familiar sound swallowed almost immediately by the low thrum of conversation and the clink of ice. She shrugged off the chill of the Soho night, the faint scent of rain and exhaust clinging to her worn delivery jacket. Her shoulder-length black hair had escaped its tie, tendrils brushing her jawline as she scanned the dimly lit interior of The Raven’s Nest. Old maps lined the walls, curling at the edges, and black-and-white photographs of forgotten faces stared out from behind dusty glass. It was a haven, a soft landing after a day of navigating London traffic and terse customer interactions.
Silas Blackwood, as ever, stood behind the polished mahogany bar, a study in quiet authority. His grey-streaked auburn hair and neatly trimmed beard caught the light as he meticulously wiped down a pint glass. The silver signet ring on his right hand gleamed. He looked up, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. "Rory. Rough one?" His voice was low, a rumble that suited the bar's atmosphere. His slight limp was more pronounced today, a faint shift in weight as he moved.
"Just long," Rory admitted, tossing her keys onto the counter. She pulled up a stool at the far end, away from the scattered patrons. "A record number of forgotten sauces tonight."
Silas chuckled, placing a fresh pint of cider in front of her without her asking. Rory traced the condensation on the glass. The air in here was thick with the smell of hops and old wood, a comforting antidote to the frantic energy of the city. She felt the day’s tension begin to bleed away, her shoulders easing from their high, defensive posture. She watched Silas work, his movements precise, almost ritualistic, observing the world around him with a quiet intensity . He was a good listener, and sometimes, that was all she needed.
Her gaze drifted idly across the room, past a huddled trio discussing football, past a couple lost in their own shared silence , past a lone woman engrossed in a book. And then, her breath hitched.
The woman at the small, round table near the back was looking up, not at Rory, but at something unseen beyond her . Her face, framed by a cascade of perfectly styled blonde hair, was instantly familiar , yet profoundly changed. Elara . Her heart gave a sudden, painful lurch , a phantom echo of a life left behind.
Elara ’s hair, once a wild, sun-streaked mess Rory had spent hours trying to tame with a brush and sheer force, now fell in a sleek, expensive-looking bob, perfectly coiffed, shimmering under the bar’s subdued lighting. The comfortable , oversized jumpers she’d favored in university were replaced by a tailored silk blouse that gleamed a cool silver. Her hands, once prone to nervous fidgeting, rested calmly on the table, a cluster of delicate gold rings catching the light. She looked… polished. Hardened, somehow. Like a statue carved from the softer girl Rory had known.
Rory felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach . Cardiff. The word tasted like ash in her mouth . She hadn't seen Elara since the chaotic aftermath of leaving Evan, since the hasty goodbyes that hadn’t really been goodbyes at all. Five years. A lifetime.
Elara ’s eyes, a striking emerald green Rory remembered so well, finally met hers. For a moment, a flicker of something unreadable passed between them: surprise, recognition, perhaps a shared ghost. The faint murmur of the bar seemed to fade into the background.
Elara smiled then, a slow, tentative stretch of her lips that didn't quite reach her eyes . She pushed her chair back, the scrape a sudden, jarring noise in the quiet space.
"Rory?" she questioned, the name a soft echo from a distant past. Her voice, refined and slightly deeper, was a far cry from the lilting Welsh accent Rory remembered.
Rory forced a smile, pushing herself off the stool. Her legs felt strangely heavy. "Elara . What are you doing here?" The question was blunt, born of genuine disbelief. Elara wasn’t a Soho bar regular. Elara was… Cardiff. Coffee shops with mismatched furniture and endless debates about post-structuralism.
Elara paused, an almost imperceptible hesitation. She glanced around the bar, as if assessing its suitability . "Business, actually. Just finished a meeting nearby. Needed a quiet drink before the train." She gestured vaguely towards the empty chair opposite her. "Join me?"
Rory walked towards the table, feeling every inch of the distance, acutely aware of the dust on her trainers and the faint grease stains on her jacket. She slid into the seat, the worn leather cushion a stark contrast to Elara ’s crisp elegance.
"Train back to where?" Rory asked, trying to sound casual, but her voice felt rough, unused to navigating these old channels.
"Cardiff, mostly," Elara said, her eyes meeting Rory's again. There was something in their depth that remained familiar , a spark of the old mischief, though it was carefully guarded now. "Though I'm up in London quite a bit these days. New firm."
"New firm," Rory repeated, a dull ache starting behind her eyes . "You're still… law?"
Elara nodded, a small, proud lift of her chin. "Corporate, now. Mergers and acquisitions. It’s… demanding. Rewarding." She took a delicate sip of her gin and tonic, ice chiming softly against the glass. "And you? Still doing… whatever you were doing?"
The unspoken judgment hung in the air , light but undeniable. Rory felt a familiar prickle of defensiveness. "I mean, I'm still in London," she said, choosing her words carefully . "Working for a Chinese place, Golden Empress. Delivery. Part-time." She almost added 'and living above this bar,' but held back. Some details were too intimate for this version of Elara .
Elara ’s perfect eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Delivery, really ? I always thought you'd be thriving, Rory. You always had that sharp wit, that drive. What happened to Pre-Law?"
The question, so innocent on the surface, felt like a barbed hook . Rory’s scarred left wrist, a faint crescent moon from a forgotten childhood accident, suddenly tingled. "Life happened, Elara ," she said, her voice flat . "Things change." She thought of Evan, of the suffocating grip of his manipulative anger, of the desperate flight to London. Elara had known about Evan. They had all known, in a way, or suspected. But no one had truly understood, no one had really intervened. And Elara , Rory had always thought, would have been the one. The regret was a bitter taste.
Elara stared into her glass. "Yes, of course." Her tone was softer now, tinged with something that sounded like pity, or perhaps genuine sadness. "We all change, don't we? It's been… a long time. I missed you, you know."
Rory’s laugh was brittle. "Did you? Hard to tell." She regretted it instantly. The old resentments, packed away in the darkest corners of her mind, threatened to spill out. This wasn't the place. Not here, not now.
Elara flinched, her composure cracking just for a moment. "It was complicated, Rory. After you left… everything was a mess. Evan was… difficult. Everyone walked on eggshells. He had this way of making everything your fault, didn't he?" Her green eyes, for the first time, held a flicker of a shared memory, a painful recognition.
Rory clenched her jaw . "He did ." The truth was, Elara had been one of the friends who had quietly pulled away, caught in Evan's subtle web of manipulation and isolation. Rory had understood, at the time, but the understanding hadn't erased the hurt of abandonment.
"I still feel bad about it, you know," Elara continued, her voice barely a whisper , eyes fixed on some point beyond Rory’s shoulder. "I should have… I don't know what I should have done. But you just vanished. No note, no call. Just gone. Everyone thought you'd just… run away."
The unspoken accusation, that Rory had abandoned them, stung. "I *did * run away, Elara . I had to. And I called Eva. She was the one who helped me get out." Rory remembered the frantic calls, the whispered plans, the crushing fear. Evan had tapped her phone, tracked her movements. She’d left a life, not just a city.
Elara finally looked at Rory, her gaze intense. "Eva. Yes, she always was fiercely loyal. Still is, I imagine. She's doing well too, back home, teaching history now. Married a lovely chap, a doctor."
Rory felt a strange twist of relief mixed with bitterness. Eva deserved happiness. But the thought that Elara was still privy to Eva’s life, still part of that Cardiff circle, while Rory had become an outsider, was a stark reminder of what she’d lost.
"That's good," Rory said, managing a genuine note. "I'm glad for her."
A silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken words, with questions that would never be answered, with apologies that would never be fully voiced. Rory looked at Elara , truly looked. The expensive clothes, the perfect hair, the guarded poise—it was a shield. Elara wasn't just older; she was fundamentally different, polished by a different grindstone than Rory's own. She had moved past the shadows of their shared youth by constructing a meticulously ordered life, perhaps one that left little room for the messy realities of the past.
“You look well, Elara ,” Rory offered, meaning it in a detached way. She looked successful, unburdened by the same shadows that still sometimes clung to Rory.
Elara smiled, a genuine, if fleeting , expression this time. "And you're still… you, Rory. Still that fierce look in your eyes." Her gaze lingered on Rory’s bright blue eyes, then dropped to her left wrist, as if searching for something . Rory instinctively covered the crescent scar with her right hand.
"Some things don't change," Rory finally said, the words ringing with more conviction than she felt . She thought of her cool-headed intelligence, her quick out-of-the-box thinking, the parts of her Evan hadn't been able to crush. Those were still there, honed sharper by necessity.
Elara checked her watch , a sleek, minimalist design that must have cost a fortune. "My train, I should go." She placed a few crisp notes on the table for her drink, far more than required. "It was… good to see you, Rory. Unexpected."
"You too, Elara ." The words felt hollow, a formal closing to an encounter that had pried open old wounds without truly healing them.
Elara stood, gathering her small, designer handbag. She hesitated, as if contemplating something, then simply nodded and turned, walking purposefully towards the door . The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest glowed above her as she pushed it open, stepping back into the London night, leaving a faint scent of expensive perfume in her wake.
Rory watched her go, a strange mix of relief and melancholy washing over her. The bar’s murmur returned, suddenly louder, filling the void Elara had left. She picked up her pint of cider, now warm and neglected. The weight of time, of divergent paths, settled heavily on her shoulders. Elara had changed, yes, but so had everything around them, swirling onward, leaving Rory to sift through the echoes of who they once were, and the regret of what they had become.