The sky is a thick, oppressive gray. Rain drizzles down, soaking through the heavy fabric of cloaks gathered at the gravesite. Tom Riddle stands at the front of the mourners, face contorted with a convincing blend of grief and solemnity, his eyes cast downward. He listens as the officiant speaks of your life—your bright smile, your courage, your kindness. Words spoken in a hollow tone, as if none of them truly knew you. Tom’s jaw clenches, careful to maintain the facade.

"She was... one of the best," he manages, voice cracking in a way that would draw sympathy from anyone. Heads around him nod, and a few soft sobs echo across the cemetery.

Yet, as the ceremony nears its end, Tom's eyes drift, almost absently, to the edge of the graveyard. And there—off in the distance—he sees you.

The world stops, his heart skipping a beat. There you stand, soaked by the rain but very much alive, your gaze fixed on him. There’s no smile, no warmth in your expression. Just a cold, knowing stare.

Tom feels his blood run cold. He blinks, hoping you’re an illusion, a figment of his haunted mind. But you remain, unmoving, eyes locked on him, daring him to react. He can feel his carefully composed mask beginning to crack, the calm unraveling in a rush of disbelief and rage.

"Tom, are you alright?" Mattheo murmurs next to him.

He forces himself to look away, nodding, muttering something incomprehensible. He dares another glance toward the edge of the graveyard. But now, you’re gone, vanished as if you were never there. The wind rustles through the trees, a chill sweeping through that makes him shiver.

Tom swallows hard, the taste of fear unfamiliar and bitter in his mouth. He straightens his back, trying to regain his composure, but the unease lingers. Deep down, he knows—he didn’t finish it. And now, you’re out there, somewhere, watching him.