AI The green neon sign above the door buzzed with a tired, electrical hum, the letters of The Raven's Nest flickering just enough to cast the rain-slicked pavement in a sickly, pulsating glow. Rory shouldered the heavy door open, a blast of warm, stale air and muted jazz washing over her. She shook the water from her jacket, the worn leather slick under her fingers. The delivery run for the Golden Empress had been a sodden disaster, and her final drop-off was just two streets over. A drink was necessary. Just one.
The Nest was quiet for a Thursday. A few regulars nursed pints in the deep, leather-bound booths, their faces half-hidden in shadow. Old maps, their edges yellowed and curling, papered the walls, alongside grainy photographs of men in uniform who stared out with expressions Rory couldn't quite read . Silas was behind the bar, polishing a glass with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He gave her a single, sharp nod.
She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the other patrons. A haven of shadow. Silas was already pouring a measure of whiskey, the good stuff, not the swill he served to the tourists. He placed the glass in front of her without a word.
"Rough night?" The question was a low rumble.
"You could say that." She wrapped her fingers around the glass, the crystal cold against her palm. The scar on her left wrist, a pale crescent, seemed to ache in the damp weather.
He grunted, returning to his glassware. "The rain brings out the worst in people. And the best in whiskey."
Rory took a sip, the liquid a slow, burning path down her throat. She let her gaze drift across the room, over the maps of long-vanished empires and the frozen faces of history. It was a place that felt suspended in time, a bunker against the relentless churn of the city outside. She was just starting to feel the tension in her shoulders unknot when the door opened again.
A figure stepped inside, shaking off an umbrella with an efficient , almost military snap. A woman. She wore a sharply tailored charcoal trench coat, cinched tight at the waist. Her hair was a sleek, blonde bob, not a strand out of place, a stark contrast to the damp, chaotic mess of Rory's own black hair. The woman's eyes swept the room, a swift, practised assessment, before they landed on Rory.
And stopped.
The air in Rory's lungs solidified. She knew that face . The high cheekbones, the pale, intelligent eyes. It was a face she'd last seen across a sticky table in a student union bar, tears streaming down it as they'd pledged to escape their small town and conquer the world.
Eva.
The woman’s expression didn't crack into a smile. It didn't register surprise, not exactly. It was something more guarded. A flicker of recognition , followed by a careful, almost calculated blankness. She handed her coat and umbrella to Silas, who took them with the same impassive nod he'd given Rory.
Eva walked towards her. The click of her heels on the wooden floor was the only sound in the sudden silence of Rory's world. She stopped a few feet away, her expensive perfume—sandalwood and something citrusy—arriving a moment before she did.
"Rory." Her voice was the same, but different. The Welsh accent was still there, but clipped, refined, as if she'd sanded down the rough, familiar edges.
"Eva." Rory's own voice sounded coarse to her ears. "It's been a while."
"A while," Eva repeated, the words tasting like a foreign language. "You could say that." Her gaze dropped to Rory's damp delivery jacket, the faded jeans, the scuffed boots. It wasn't judgement, not overtly, but a simple, swift assessment . A calculation.
Rory gestured to the empty stool next to her. "Sit. Or are you meeting someone?"
"No. No one." Eva sat, placing her phone, a sleek, black rectangle, face-down on the bar. She kept her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "I was just… passing through. This was… recommended."
"Small world," Rory said, the cliché tasting like ash.
"Isn't it." Eva’s eyes swept the bar again. "What are you doing here? I thought you were at Cardiff. Law." The last word was pointed.
Rory took a long, slow drink. "I left. I'm in London now."
"London." Eva nodded slowly . "Doing what?"
"Delivery. For now." Rory met her gaze. "Pays the bills."
Silas appeared, silent as a ghost . He placed a glass of white wine in front of Eva without being asked . She looked at him, a quick, sharp glance of inquiry. He simply raised an eyebrow , his silver signet ring glinting under the low light, and moved away.
Eva picked up the glass, her movements precise. "He seems to know you."
"He's my landlord. And my boss. In a way. I live upstairs."
Something flickered in Eva's eyes then. Pity, or maybe disappointment. It was gone before Rory could be sure. "Right." She sipped her wine. "You look… well."
"You're a terrible liar, Eva." The words came out sharper than Rory intended.
Eva had the decency to look away, her gaze fixing on one of the grainy photographs on the wall. "I'm not lying. You look like you. Just… a different version."
"And you look like a director of a hedge fund."
A small, tight smile played on Eva's lips. "Close. Private equity."
"Right. Of course." Rory finished her whiskey. The warmth had fled, leaving only a hollow pit in her stomach . "When did we become these people?"
The question hung in the air , heavy and unanswerable. Eva turned back to her, her carefully constructed mask finally showing a hairline fracture. "It didn't happen all at once. You know that."
"I don't know anything. You stopped calling." Rory's words were quiet, but they carried the full weight of five years. "You were the one who told me to come here. You said you'd be here."
Eva flinched. It was a tiny movement, a tightening around her eyes, but Rory saw it. "I got an offer. An internship, then a job. It was what we always talked about, Rory. Getting out."
"Getting out," Rory echoed . "I got out. I left Evan. I left law. I left everything. I came to London because you told me to. And you were gone. A text, Eva. That's all I got."
Eva's fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass, her knuckles turning white. "It wasn't that simple."
"It is that simple. You made it simple."
"I was in a different place. The pace… you don't understand. The hours, the pressure. I was drowning. I couldn't have saved you when I was trying to keep my own head above water." The words tumbled out, a rehearsed justification, but they lacked conviction. They were the right words, but the wrong person was saying them.
"So you just let me drown," Rory said, her voice barely a whisper .
The jazz from the speakers seemed to swell, the saxophone a mournful wail that filled the silence between them. Eva picked up her wine, her hand trembling slightly . She took a sip, then another.
"I'm sorry, Rory." The apology was small, brittle. "I should have… I should have handled it better."
Rory looked at the woman beside her. The sharp suit, the perfect hair, the polished surface. And underneath, she saw the ghost of the girl she'd once known. The girl who'd cried on her shoulder over a boy, who'd planned a future with Rory in a cramped, messy flat with too many books and not enough money. That girl was gone . In her place was this elegant, exhausted stranger who smelled of money and loneliness.
"It's not about handling it," Rory said, the anger finally draining away, leaving a vast, empty sadness . "It's about being there. You weren't."
"I know." Eva stared straight ahead, her reflection a faint ghost in the dark mirror behind the bar. "I know."
They sat in silence for a long time, the chasm between them too wide to cross with a few words. The drinks in front of them grew warm. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle.
"I should go," Eva said finally, placing her glass back on the bar. She didn't look at Rory. She pulled a sleek wallet from her coat, placing a card on the bar. "That's my number. It's… my direct line."
Rory just looked at the embossed card. It was heavy, a stark contrast to the coasters it sat next to.
Eva stood, her movements stiff. She buttoned her coat, preparing to step back into the world she'd built for herself.
"It was good to see you, Rory."
Rory didn't stand. She didn't offer a hug. She just looked up at the woman who had once been her entire world.
"Goodbye, Eva."
Eva's Adam's apple bobbed. She opened her mouth as if to say something more, then closed it. She turned and walked out the door, the little bell above it jingling with a cheerful, oblivious note.
Rory was left alone with the cold whiskey glass and the business card. Silas appeared again, silent, and began to wipe down the bar. He didn't ask questions. He never did.
After a long moment, Rory picked up the card. It was smooth and cool beneath her fingers. She stared at the name, the title, the phone number. Then, she slid off her stool, walked to the end of the bar, and dropped it into the bin. It fell with a soft, almost inaudible thud.
"Another?" Silas asked.
Rory slid back onto her stool, her shoulders set. "Please."