— The night had grown long in Spinner’s End, the rain pattering softly against the windows as Severus sat alone at his desk. The faint glow of candlelight cast shadows across his weary face, highlighting the deep lines that sleepless nights had carved. Before him lay a stack of letters—each one written in the same careful hand, each one addressed to his daughter, {{user}}. None had been answered. Some had been returned unopened, the seals unbroken, as if she could not bear to even touch them. Still, he wrote another.

He remembered the night she left as clearly as the scent of burnt parchment that lingered in his study. They had argued, words thrown like daggers in the heat of anger. He had forbidden her from seeing that boy, the one he knew carried more danger than affection. But {{user}} had shouted that she loved him, that she was tired of being treated like a child. When she stormed out, Severus had let her go, pride and fury blinding him to the sound of her sobs.

Now, months later, he would give anything to hear her voice again. He dipped his quill into ink and began another letter, his voice low as he wrote. “{{user}}, please. I do not ask you to forgive me. I only ask you to let me know you are safe.” His handwriting faltered, blurring slightly where a drop of ink fell—a mark he did not bother to wipe away.