AI The Raven’s Nest hummed with the usual Soho evening drone, a low thrum of half-heard conversations and the clink of glasses. Rory wiped down the polished mahogany bar with a practiced hand, the scent of stale ale and lemon polish clinging to her fingers. Outside, the distinctive green neon sign flickered , throwing a faint, sickly glow through the streaky front window. It was late for her shift, but a quiet night meant meticulous cleaning.
Silas, a solid anchor behind the bar, meticulously polished a tumbler, his grey-streaked auburn beard catching the low light. He moved with a quiet efficiency, his slight limp almost imperceptible. A silver signet ring gleamed on his right hand as he turned the glass. He caught Rory’s eye, a flicker of hazel warmth . “Almost done, love. Don’t let me keep you from your beauty sleep.”
Rory offered him a small smile. “Not quite yet. Still got the back tables.” She slung her rag over her shoulder, her straight, shoulder-length black hair falling over one bright blue eye as she bent to pick up a stray coaster. The small crescent scar on her left wrist, a childhood souvenir from a bicycle crash, seemed to pulse with an old, phantom ache in the dim light. Living above the bar, her own flat a sanctuary of familiar clutter, meant she never rushed to leave the quiet camaraderie of Silas’s company. Especially on nights like this, when a subtle sense of unease had been nipping at her heels since dusk.
She worked her way through the scattering of tables, clearing empty glasses and pushing in chairs. The old maps on the walls, the black-and-white photographs of forgotten London scenes, seemed to watch her, each one a silent witness to countless stories unfolding within these walls. As she neared the entrance, a sharp, unfamiliar laugh cut through the bar’s murmur.
A woman stood silhouetted against the neon glow from outside, her back to Rory. Tall, impossibly poised in a tailored charcoal suit that sculpted a figure Rory only vaguely remembered beneath layers of student-era hoodies. The woman spoke into a sleek phone, her voice carrying an educated lilt , crisp and confident. Rory paused, her rag clutched in her hand. There was something in the curve of her jaw, the way she held her head. Something that prickled at the edges of Rory’s memory.
The woman clicked her phone shut and turned, her gaze sweeping the room. Her eyes, a sharp, assessing green, landed on Rory. Time folded in on itself, a thick, suffocating blanket.
“Rory?” The voice was a little higher, more polished than Rory remembered, yet utterly unmistakable.
Rory’s breath caught. Elara .
Elara Davies. Only, this wasn’t Elara Davies, the girl who wore ripped jeans and debated obscure poets during all-night study sessions in the Cardiff University library. This was someone else, someone honed and sharpened, a predator in an expensive suit. Her blonde hair, once tousled and often dyed a rebellious shade, was now a perfect , expensive-looking bob that framed a face undeniably beautiful, but etched with new lines of ambition around the green eyes.
“Elara ?” Rory managed, the name feeling foreign on her tongue . Her own reflection, usually a familiar stranger, suddenly seemed young, soft, provincial in comparison to this sculpted apparition.
Elara ’s lips stretched into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes . “It *is * you, isn’t it? Good heavens, I almost didn’t recognise you. Still in London, then?” She took a step towards Rory, a delicate leather handbag clutched in one hand. The scent of her perfume, something sophisticated and costly, reached Rory before she did.
Rory felt a strange mix of shock and defensiveness. “Yes, still here. And you?” She gestured vaguely at Elara’s impeccable attire. “You’ve... changed.” The understatement hung heavy, a lead weight in the air.
Elara chuckled, a dry, elegant sound. “Haven’t we all?” She surveyed The Raven’s Nest, her gaze lingering on the dusty maps and the quirky décor, a hint of disdain in her expression that was quickly masked. “This is … quaint. What are you doing here, Rory? I heard you’d dropped out of pre-law after… well, after.”
The ‘after’ hung between them, heavy with the unspoken ghost of Evan, the abusive ex Rory had fled, the life she’d abandoned. Rory’s jaw tightened. She’d tried to bury that part of herself, but Elara ’s presence ripped it open, exposing a tender, unhealed wound.
“I work here,” Rory said, her voice even, perhaps a little too level. “Part-time. I also do deliveries for Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress.” She offered the information like a shield, daring Elara to judge.
Elara ’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “A delivery person. How… unexpected. I remember when you were going to be the next big barrister, tearing apart courtrooms. You had that fire, Rory. What happened?”
The words, though framed as a question, felt more like an accusation. Rory remembered Elara , sitting across from her in a greasy Spoon’s, offering fervent praise for Rory’s fierce intellect, her ability to dissect legal texts. That fire. It had burned out, smothered under the weight of Evan’s control, then rekindled in a different, quieter way.
“Life happened,” Rory said simply, meeting Elara ’s gaze. Her blue eyes held steady, refusing to flinch. “Things change. What about you? Still chasing corporate glory?”
Elara ’s smile finally softened, a genuine flicker of warmth breaking through the polished veneer. “Something like that. I’m an associate director at Meridia Capital now. Finance. It’s… demanding. And incredibly lucrative.” She gestured around the bar . "This is a far cry from the life we imagined, isn't it? Our little flat in Cardiff, dreaming of offices in Canary Wharf, of making partner."
Rory’s mind flashed back to those dreams, shared over cheap wine and instant noodles. Elara had been a fiercely loyal friend then, a confident counterpart to Rory’s more hesitant ambition. But when Rory’s life had begun to unravel , when Evan’s grip had tightened and her attendance at lectures dwindled, Elara had slowly , imperceptibly, pulled away. There had been no big fight, no dramatic break. Just a gradual fading, a polite distance. Rory had been too lost in her own turmoil to challenge it, too proud to beg. The regret of that unspoken abandonment, that quiet withdrawal of support when it was needed most, coiled in Rory’s gut.
“Life makes its own plans,” Rory offered, shrugging, trying to project an air of philosophical acceptance she didn’t quite feel . “I’m content.”
Elara ’s gaze narrowed slightly , assessing. “Content. Is that what we aimed for, Rory? Content?” She took another step closer, lowering her voice, though the bar was quiet enough for it to carry. “I remember you, holed up in your room, crying over Evan. I remember thinking you were wasting yourself. I knew you were capable of more.”
The casual way Elara dismissed Rory’s pain, the implicit judgment in her “I knew you were capable of more,” struck Rory like a physical blow. She remembered Eva, her childhood friend, arriving unannounced, dragging her out of that dark flat, away from Evan. Eva had seen the waste, but she had offered a hand, not an observation.
A warmth spread through Rory’s left hand. Subconsciously, she’d touched the crescent scar on her wrist, a tiny, almost invisible line that represented a deeper wound.
“It wasn’t that simple, Elara ,” Rory said, her voice dropping . The bitterness tasted sharp on her tongue. “You weren’t there to see it, were you? You hardly called.”
Elara recoiled slightly , her perfect posture stiffening. “I had my own life, Rory. My own ambitions. I couldn’t dwell on your… choices. I had to focus. Cardiff was suffocating me. I had to get out.” There was a hard edge in her voice now, a defensiveness that exposed a raw nerve.
“So you just… left?” Rory pressed, the unspoken years of hurt finally bubbling to the surface. “You left me to pick up the pieces alone? Our friendship – it just wasn’t worth fighting for?”
Elara ’s green eyes flickered , a momentary shadow passing through them. “That’s unfair, Rory. I encouraged you to leave him. I *told * you he was bad news.”
“Telling me and helping me are two different things, Elara ,” Rory retorted, the heat rising in her cheeks . “I was barely functioning. I was losing everything. I needed a friend, not a critic.”
Silas, who had been quietly wiping the bar, coughed softly , a polite but firm interruption. He glanced at Rory, a silent question in his hazel eyes, then swept his gaze over Elara before returning to his polishing. It was a subtle gesture, a lifeline, offering Rory a way out, reminding her of her present.
Rory took a breath, reeling herself back in. This wasn’t the time or place for this confrontation, this unpacking of old wounds. Not here, not now, not with this stranger wearing her friend’s face.
Elara seemed to also gather herself, a practiced composure settling back over her features. Her smile, when it returned, was a cool, professional one. “Perhaps we both made choices, then. And look where we are. You, here.” She gestured vaguely at The Raven’s Nest. “And me, heading up a merger next quarter that will reshape the market.” A subtle flexing of power, a quiet assertion of victory.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Rory could hear the dull throb of the music from the club down the street, the distant wail of a siren a thousand miles away. The gap between them, once a mere geographical distance, now felt like an unbridgeable chasm of experience and values. She saw the bright blue eyes of her youth, full of idealism and nascent ambition, reflected in the polished surface of the bar, then looked up at Elara ’s shrewd green gaze, now devoid of that carefree sparkle.
“Well,” Rory said, her voice flat . “It was… something… seeing you, Elara .” The polite pleasantry felt like a lie .
Elara nodded, her expression unreadable . “It was. You truly haven’t changed, have you, Rory? Still hold onto everything, I see.” She glanced at her expensive watch. “I need to be going. A car waiting.”
She turned, a graceful pivot, and walked towards the entrance, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor. She didn’t look back. The green neon sign flashed as she slipped out into the Soho night, taking with her the faint scent of expensive perfume and the suffocating weight of an old, broken friendship.
Rory stood motionless, the forgotten rag still clutched in her hand, until Silas’s quiet voice broke the spell.
“Everything alright, love?” he asked, his gaze steady and knowing .
Rory turned, a weary sigh escaping her lips. “Just ghosts,” she murmured, looking at the empty space where Elara had stood. “Old ghosts, Silas.”
Silas nodded, his understanding implicit. He reached under the bar and slid a small glass of amber liquid towards her. “Whiskey, then. Chases them away. For a while, at least.”
Rory picked up the glass, the cool weight of it a small comfort. She looked at her reflection in the dark liquid, her bright blue eyes shadowed with a lingering sadness. The girl who had dreamed of changing the world with Elara was gone . And perhaps, that wasn't such a bad thing after all.