Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95FSW5Z4V9J6G6ADQRR3N3

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest cast a faint, emerald glow across the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the dim light clung to every surface, softening the edges of antique maps tacked to the walls and blurring the faces in the monochrome photographs. A low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses provided the bar’s constant hum. Rory, perched on a stool at the far end of the long oak counter, traced the rim of an empty water glass with her thumb. The day’s final delivery run had left a dull ache in her shoulders, a familiar thrum of exhaustion beneath her skin. Silas wiped down the rich wood before her, his movements economical, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the light. “Another quiet one,” Rory said, her voice a low murmur against the bar’s backdrop. Silas grunted, a soft sound. A faint clink of ice cube in his hand accompanied his answer, as he reached for a glass. “They come and go.” His gaze, hazel and keen, held hers for a brief moment before drifting past her shoulder towards the door. The bell above the entrance jingled, a sharp, clear sound that cut through the bar’s usual din. Rory barely registered it, turning her attention to the intricate pattern of a watermark on her glass. The smell of ozone and damp wool drifted inland from the newly opened door as the rain found a temporary lull. A woman stepped inside, shaking out a heavy dark coat. Her hair, a vibrant blonde, glistened under the subdued lighting. Rory heard the crisp click of expensive heels across the polished floorboards, a sound alien to the worn comfort of the Nest. She turned her head slowly, her bright blue eyes meeting a pair of startled green ones across the room. The woman paused, her coat still halfway off, mouth slightly agape. Recognition hit Rory like a cold draft. Chloe. Chloe’s hand dropped from her coat, a small designer handbag clattering against her side. “Rory?” Rory pushed off the stool, her chair scraping against the floorboards, a jarring noise. She felt a familiar tightening in her chest, a knot of unease unraveling from years buried deep. Chloe moved forward, her steps hesitant but determined, weaving between tables. “Oh my god. I thought it was you. I really did.” She reached out, her hand hovering, then clasping Rory’s arm, a grip that felt both tentative and possessive. Her touch felt foreign against Rory’s skin. Rory pulled her arm back, a small, subtle motion. “Chloe. What are you – here?” The last word came out flat, stripped of inflection. She glanced at Silas, who continued to polish a glass, but his gaze remained fixed on the unfolding tableau. Chloe laughed, a brittle sound. “What am *I* doing here? What are *you* doing here? Oh, Rory, it’s been… what? Years. Five? Six?” “Something like that,” Rory said, her voice even. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair swung slightly as she gave a small shake of her head. “You look… different.” Chloe’s gaze swept over Rory’s slightly worn black uniform, the practical trainers, then returned to her face. Her own appearance radiated an effortless polish: a tailored jumpsuit, delicate gold jewellery, and a perfectly styled bob. She looked meticulously curated, a stark contrast to Rory’s unembellished presence. Rory offered a tight smile. “So do you.” “Well, you know.” Chloe gestured vaguely. “London. New job. Moved down here about six months ago. Came here on a recommendation. Old jazz night. I had no idea.” She peered around the dimly lit space. “This is… quaint. Very you, actually, the old you. Secretive.” Her voice dropped, a playful conspiratorial tone. “Still keeping secrets?” Rory’s jaw hardened almost imperceptibly. “Not really. I work here. Deliveries mostly. My flat’s upstairs.” Chloe’s eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “Deliveries? Rory, you were Pre-Law. Cardiff University. What happened to that?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken judgment. “Things change,” Rory said. She stepped back, putting a little more distance between them. She knew the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, usually hidden by her sleeve, felt like it was throbbing. “Clearly.” Chloe’s smile faltered. “I heard… well, things. About Evan. I tried to call. You just vanished. Ghosted everyone.” Her voice held a thin edge of accusation now. “It was messy,” Rory conceded. She kept her gaze steady, refusing to wilt under Chloe’s probing. “I needed a clean break.” “A clean break.” Chloe echoed the phrase, then laughed without humour. “From everything? Us? Our lives? We were all so worried, you know. Eva was beside herself. And then you pop up here, working in a bar. It’s quite the pivot, Rory.” “A choice,” Rory corrected softly. Her eyes flicked to Silas again, standing motionless behind the bar, pretending not to listen, yet missing nothing. His mere presence was a shield, a silent affirmation of her new life. “A bold choice, then,” Chloe said, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “I work for Harrington & Finch now. Corporate Law. Funny, right? Remember all those late nights, cramming for torts? You always knew the answers.” A melancholic note entered her voice. “We were going to conquer the world, weren’t we? You, me, Eva.” “Dreams shift,” Rory said. She folded her arms, her posture closing her off. The conversation felt like picking at an old wound, not to heal it, but to remind herself of the pain. “They do, don’t they?” Chloe’s gaze lingered on Rory’s face, searching for something she couldn’t find. “You’ve changed, Rory. Really changed. You used to be… brighter. More spark.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened to the girl who believed in all the rules?” A sharp, brittle laugh escaped Rory’s lips, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. She lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely around the bar. “Rules can be rewritten. Sometimes, they just break.” She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the darkened glass of a framed photograph: her bright blue eyes held a new kind of depth, her features sharper. The old Rory, the girl from Cardiff, felt like a distant echo. “I suppose so.” Chloe finally gave in, her shoulders slumping. A genuine sigh escaped her. “I did miss you, though. We all did.” She looked around the bar again, as if the answers lay in the dusty bottles or the peeling wallpaper. “What kind of life is this, Rory? Delivering takeaways? You always had so much… ambition.” Rory met Chloe’s gaze unflinchingly. “I have a life. It's mine. And I’m good at what I do.” Her fingers brushed against the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a habitual gesture of comfort. “It’s enough.” Chloe opened her mouth, then closed it. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken words, with years of distance and diverging paths. The music from the speakers, a slow, melancholic jazz tune, seemed to underscore the vast chasm that had opened between them. Chloe’s perfectly made-up face creased with a subtle regret, a reflection that Rory herself felt, though she refused to show it.The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest cast a faint, emerald glow across the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the dim light clung to every surface, softening the edges of antique maps tacked to the walls and blurring the faces in the monochrome photographs. A low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses provided the bar’s constant hum. Rory, perched on a stool at the far end of the long oak counter, traced the rim of an empty water glass with her thumb. The day’s final delivery run had left a dull ache in her shoulders, a familiar thrum of exhaustion beneath her skin. Silas wiped down the rich wood before her, his movements economical, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the light. “Another quiet one,” Rory said, her voice a low murmur against the bar’s backdrop. Silas grunted, a soft sound. A faint clink of ice cube in his hand accompanied his answer, as he reached for a glass. “They come and go.” His gaze, hazel and keen, held hers for a brief moment before drifting past her shoulder towards the door. The bell above the entrance jingled, a sharp, clear sound that cut through the bar’s usual din. Rory barely registered it, turning her attention to the intricate pattern of a watermark on her glass. The smell of ozone and damp wool drifted inland from the newly opened door as the rain found a temporary lull. A woman stepped inside, shaking out a heavy dark coat. Her hair, a vibrant blonde, glistened under the subdued lighting. Rory heard the crisp click of expensive heels across the polished floorboards, a sound alien to the worn comfort of the Nest. She turned her head slowly, her bright blue eyes meeting a pair of startled green ones across the room. The woman paused, her coat still halfway off, mouth slightly agape. Recognition hit Rory like a cold draft. Chloe. Chloe’s hand dropped from her coat, a small designer handbag clattering against her side. “Rory?” Rory pushed off the stool, her chair scraping against the floorboards, a jarring noise. She felt a familiar tightening in her chest, a knot of unease unraveling from years buried deep. Chloe moved forward, her steps hesitant but determined, weaving between tables. “Oh my god. I thought it was you. I really did.” She reached out, her hand hovering, then clasping Rory’s arm, a grip that felt both tentative and possessive. Her touch felt foreign against Rory’s skin. Rory pulled her arm back, a small, subtle motion. “Chloe. What are you – here?” The last word came out flat, stripped of inflection. She glanced at Silas, who continued to polish a glass, but his gaze remained fixed on the unfolding tableau. Chloe laughed, a brittle sound. “What am *I* doing here? What are *you* doing here? Oh, Rory, it’s been… what? Years. Five? Six?” “Something like that,” Rory said, her voice even. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair swung slightly as she gave a small shake of her head. “You look… different.” Chloe’s gaze swept over Rory’s slightly worn black uniform, the practical trainers, then returned to her face. Her own appearance radiated an effortless polish: a tailored jumpsuit, delicate gold jewellery, and a perfectly styled bob. She looked meticulously curated, a stark contrast to Rory’s unembellished presence. Rory offered a tight smile. “So do you.” “Well, you know.” Chloe gestured vaguely. “London. New job. Moved down here about six months ago. Came here on a recommendation. Old jazz night. I had no idea.” She peered around the dimly lit space. “This is… quaint. Very you, actually, the old you. Secretive.” Her voice dropped, a playful conspiratorial tone. “Still keeping secrets?” Rory’s jaw hardened almost imperceptibly. “Not really. I work here. Deliveries mostly. My flat’s upstairs.” Chloe’s eyes widened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “Deliveries? Rory, you were Pre-Law. Cardiff University. What happened to that?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken judgment. “Things change,” Rory said. She stepped back, putting a little more distance between them. She knew the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, usually hidden by her sleeve, felt like it was throbbing. “Clearly.” Chloe echoed the word, then laughed without humour. “I heard… well, things. About Evan. I tried to call. You just vanished. Ghosted everyone.” Her voice held a thin edge of accusation now. “It was messy,” Rory conceded. She kept her gaze steady, refusing to wilt under Chloe’s probing. “I needed a clean break.” “A clean break.” Chloe repeated the phrase, then huffed. “From everything? Us? Our lives? We were all so worried, you know. Eva was beside herself. And then you pop up here, working in a bar. It’s quite the pivot, Rory.” “A choice,” Rory corrected softly. Her eyes flicked to Silas again, standing motionless behind the bar, pretending not to listen, yet missing nothing. His mere presence was a shield, a silent affirmation of her new life. “A bold choice, then,” Chloe said, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “I work for Harrington & Finch now. Corporate Law. Funny, right? Remember all those late nights, cramming for torts? You always knew the answers.” A melancholic note entered her voice. “We were going to conquer the world, weren’t we? You, me, Eva.” “Dreams shift,” Rory said. She folded her arms, her posture closing her off. The conversation felt like picking at an old wound, not to heal it, but to remind herself of the pain. “They do, don’t they?” Chloe’s gaze lingered on Rory’s face, searching for something she couldn’t find. “You’ve changed, Rory. Really changed. You used to be… brighter. More spark.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What happened to the girl who believed in all the rules?” A sharp, brittle laugh escaped Rory’s lips, a sound she didn’t recognize as her own. She lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely around the bar. “Rules can be rewritten. Sometimes, they just break.” She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the darkened glass of a framed photograph: her bright blue eyes held a new kind of depth, her features sharper. The old Rory, the girl from Cardiff, felt like a distant echo. “I suppose so.” Chloe finally gave in, her shoulders slumping. A genuine sigh escaped her. “I did miss you, though. We all did.” She looked around the bar again, as if the answers lay in the dusty bottles or the peeling wallpaper. “What kind of life is this, Rory? Delivering takeaways? You always had so much… ambition.” Rory met Chloe’s gaze unflinchingly. “I have a life. It’s mine. And I’m good at what I do.” Her fingers brushed against the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a habitual gesture of comfort. “It’s enough.” Chloe opened her mouth, then closed it. The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken words, with years of distance and diverging paths. The music from the speakers, a slow, melancholic jazz tune, seemed to underscore the vast chasm that had opened between them. Chloe’s perfectly made-up face creased with a subtle regret, a reflection that Rory herself felt, though she refused to show it.