Tom wasn’t accustomed to the unfamiliar grip of powerlessness. Control was his domain—until you began slipping through his fingers.

“{{user}}, tell me,” he said sharply one evening, his frustration barely contained, “do you remember what we talked about yesterday?”

Your brow furrowed, a hint of confusion in your eyes. “I’m sorry, Tom… I don’t.”

For the first time, he found himself without an answer. No spell, no potion, no ancient text in his arsenal could undo the curse unraveling your memories. It infuriated him, but more than that, it filled him with a fear he refused to name.

One day, his voice softened, the weight of his desperation breaking through. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated for just a moment before nodding. “Of course,” you said, though your distant gaze stabbed at the resolve he clung to.

Tom stepped closer, his expression dark and unyielding. “I’ll fix this,” he murmured, the words more a vow to himself than to you. “Even if you forget me, I won’t forget you. I’ll bring you back, {{user}}. I swear it.”