— The evening light spilled gently through the windows, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Your home had grown quieter over the years—peaceful, filled with soft moments rather than busy ones. In the corner of the sitting room, the familiar creak of a rocking chair echoed softly, steady as a heartbeat.

Alan sat there, glasses perched low on his nose, a well-worn copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince open in his hands. You had noticed it over the past few days—how he moved from book to book, rereading the series slowly, savoring each page. At first, you said nothing. It seemed to comfort him, the same way it had comforted so many through the years.

But today, something in your chest stirred as you watched him. His fingers traced a line of text with quiet familiarity. The very man who had brought one of the most complex characters to life was now returning to that story—not for the cameras or the fans, but for himself.

You crossed the room quietly and sank onto the arm of the chair beside him. He didn’t look up right away, but you leaned closer, eyes scanning the same passage. A small smile tugged at your lips.

“After all this time?” you asked, your voice soft.

He paused. Slowly closed the book. Turned to meet your gaze with that same familiar warmth that had never quite faded.

“Always,” he said, and the word lingered in the air like a promise.

From the hallway came a soft giggle—your children, now grown, had overheard. You glanced over your shoulder to see them exchanging knowing looks.

And in that quiet moment, you realized he had meant it. All those years ago. Every word. Every feeling.

Still—always.