AI The rain had turned Soho’s cobblestones to slick black mirrors by 11:17 PM, and Aurora Carter’s boots squelched through a puddle wider than her shoulders as she tucked the empty delivery bag under her arm. The last order of the night—pork dumplings, chili oil, a side of sticky rice for a silver-haired regular on Brewer Street—had netted her a five-pound tip, enough to buy a root beer and a moment of peace before she trundled up the stairs to the flat above the bar. She’d been avoiding this corner of Dean Street for two years, ever since she’d stopped leaving her front door without a jacket pulled high over her wrist, but her feet ached so bad she could barely feel her toes, and the glow of the green neon raven sign through the fogged window looked less like a warning and more like a lifeline.
The door’s brass bell jingled sharp as she pushed inside, and the smell of roasted barley and wood smoke wrapped around her like a familiar blanket. A handful of regulars hunched over pints of stout in the back corner, their voices low over the hum of a Billie Holiday track crackling from the jukebox. The walls were lined with yellowed maps of London and frayed black-and-white photos, some of Soho alleyways from the 1970s, others she’d never bothered to ask about. Silas stood behind the bar, wiping a highball glass with a linen cloth, his grey-streaked auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun, his neatly trimmed beard dusted with a stray flour speck from the pretzels he’d set out earlier. His left leg propped on a wooden crate to take pressure off the old knee injury, and his silver signet ring glinted when he shifted the glass onto the rack. He hummed a slow Irish tune under his breath, the same one her father used to sing over Sunday brunch in Cardiff.
She leaned against the bar, her voice soft enough not to startle him. “Can I get a root beer, please?”
Silas froze mid-wipe, the cloth slipping from his fingers to clatter against the marble top. He blinked, his hazel eyes locking on hers, and for a beat she thought he didn’t recognize her. Then his gaze dropped to her left wrist, where her rolled-up sleeve had slipped a fraction, revealing the tiny crescent scar peeking out from the cuff of her black t-shirt. His breath hitched.
“Rory?”
She tensed, yanking her sleeve back down to cover the mark, her shoulders hunching. “Uh—you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Laila.”
Silas scoffed, a dry, amused sound that made her smile twitch despite her nerves. He set the empty glass down, leaning both palms on the bar, his left knee creaking as he shifted his weight . “Laila? You stopped introducing yourself as Laila after you spilled stout on my favorite leather stool and admitted your real name was Aurora, but you hated it so much you begged me to call you Rory. I’d know that scar anywhere. You sliced it open hauling your thrifted couch up the flat’s staircase, slipped on the kitchen linoleum and slammed your wrist into the edge of the sink. You said you’d write a silly limerick about it and mail it to your mom, the Welsh teacher who still asks after it every time you call. You never did send it, last I checked your answering machine.”
She pulled her sleeve up again, exposing the faint, silvery crescent. A shaky laugh bubbled out of her, and she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I never did write that limerick. Mom still teases me about it. Says she’s been waiting for the poetic tribute.”
Silas turned behind the bar, grabbing a glass bottle of root beer from the cooler and twisting off the cap with a satisfying pop. He slid it across the bar to her, their fingers brushing; his were calloused , same as they’d been two years prior, from wiping glasses and fixing the jukebox after a drunken patron knocked it off its base last winter. “Thanks” was all she managed, taking a sip that fizzed up her nose and cut through the exhaustion in her bones.
He gestured to the empty stool next to him. “Sit. You’ve got a minute, right? I haven’t seen you since you stopped leaving crumpled notes on my bar counter asking for extra sugar for your post-shift tea.”
She hesitated, then peeled off the Golden Empress delivery vest, folding it neatly under her arm, and perched on the stool. The leather creaked under her weight , just like it had when she’d first moved into the flat above the bar two years prior. Her gaze drifted to the tall bookshelf pressed against the back wall, the one she’d always written off as a quirky decorative piece, stuffed with weathered crime novels and travel guides. “I never knew that was a secret door,” she said, nodding at it . “Lived above this place for two years and never noticed. Thought you just had a really weird bookshelf that didn’t fit anywhere else.”
Silas followed her gaze, a quiet smile tugging at his beard. “That’s the point. It’s a bar for people who don’t want to be found. Well, mostly. You were the exception. You’d leave your flat at 7 a.m. every morning, wave at me when you passed the staircase, and stumble home at 1 a.m. smelling like fried rice and cheap hairspray. I thought you were gonna make it big as a lawyer, you talked about pre-law so much.”
She picked at the label on her root beer bottle, her throat tightening. “I quit pre-law. Left Evan. Fled to London with Eva. Thought starting over would be easy. Turns out it’s just… different.”
Silas nodded, his hazel eyes softening. “I saw Evan, three months after you stopped coming down to the bar. He was loitering out front, wearing that stupid leather jacket he used to wear, asking the bartender if they’d seen a girl named Rory Carter. I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name, and I haven’t seen him since. I should have told you, but I figured you didn’t want me sticking your nose into your business.”
Rory set the bottle down hard enough that fizzy liquid sloshed over the edge, her eyes widening. “You saw him? Why didn’t you tell me? I was so scared I thought he’d track me right to my door.”
He shrugged, grabbing a handful of salted peanuts from the ceramic bowl on the bar. “You were clearly trying to lay low. Wore long sleeves even in July, covered that scar with a stupid beaded bracelet, started going by Laila. I didn’t want to make it worse. You’ve always been good at taking care of yourself. You left an abusive guy, moved across the country, got a job delivering food. That takes guts.”
She laughed, this time a little louder, and wiped at the tears that had spilled over. “I was scared every single day. I thought if I didn’t use my real name, Evan couldn’t find me. I thought if I stayed hidden, I could just forget all of it.”
Silas glanced down at her scuffed boots, the toes peeling, laces frayed where she’d been wearing them for three years. “Your soles are coming loose. You’ve been wearing those things since you moved here, haven’t you?”
She looked down, her cheeks heating. “Yeah. Can’t afford new ones right now. Delivery pay’s not great, and rent’s going up next month.”
He shook his head, reaching under the bar for a metal toolbox. “I’ll fix them for you. No charge. Got extra leather and glue in the back. Been meaning to patch up my own work boots, anyway. Come back tomorrow around 5 p.m., they’ll be done.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Si.”
Her gaze drifted back to the cash register, where a crumpled yellow note was taped to the side. She squinted, recognizing her own messy scrawl from tired post-shift nights. “Is that…?”
Silas followed her gaze, his smile softening. “Yeah. That’s the one. You left it after your first week waitressing at the pub near Leicester Square. Bought yourself a fancy root beer and a plate of Welsh rarebit, brought a portion over for me. Said landlords shouldn’t charge extra for broken hallway lightbulbs.”
She laughed, wiping at her eyes again. “I can’t believe you kept that. I thought you’d toss it after a week.”
He shook his head. “It was the nicest thing anyone had done for me in months. I’d just come off the last of the desk work after retiring, and I was going crazy fixing up the bar. That note made me feel like I wasn’t just running a bar for strangers. Made me feel like I had a friend.”
The jukebox switched to a slow folk tune, and the bar fell quiet save for the rain tapping against the windows and the distant hum of London traffic. Rory checked her watch , 11:42 p.m. She stood up, refolding the delivery vest under her arm. “I should go up. My shift starts at 7 a.m. tomorrow, need to sleep.”
Silas stood too, his limp more noticeable as he rounded the bar to shake her hand. “Wait. Next time you come down, leave the delivery vest at home. Wear that beat-up black t-shirt you used to wear, the one with the cracked raven printed on the front. Stay for a pint. No hiding, no lying about your name. Just… catch up.”
Her bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners, the same way they had when she’d first moved to London, full of reckless hope. “I will. Thanks, Si.”
She pushed open the door, the rain now a fine mist that stung her cheeks less than the earlier downpour. The neon raven glowed green above her, and she could hear Silas calling after her, voice rough with amusement: “Don’t be a stranger for another two years!”
She laughed, waving over her shoulder as she climbed the creaky wooden stairs to her flat. When she reached her door, she paused, pulling up her sleeve to stare at the crescent scar. For the first time in two years, she didn’t feel like hiding. She felt like coming back.