Tom sits alone in his dorm long after the castle has gone quiet, the quill steady in his hand even though his pulse isn’t. A single candle burns low beside him, melting into a pool of wax that threatens to overflow. He doesn’t notice. His eyes are fixed on the parchment in front of him as he writes a date across the top.

Seventeenth of November.

He pauses. For a moment the quill hovers, and his jaw tightens.

It now marks one year since you disappeared, little brother.

The words scratch onto the page with more force than necessary. He notices, but he doesn’t correct it. He lets the ink bleed a little, like grief seeping through a crack.

One year it has taken me to realize that without you by my side… many things do not matter anymore.

Tom exhales shakily, fingertips dragging across his forehead as if he could rub away the weight pressing behind his eyes. Guilt clings to him like smoke.

I could’ve prevented this. I could have stopped this from happening, and you could’ve been by my side. By her side.

His throat constricts around the memory of your name, of the way Mattheo used to say it like a complaint and a confession all in one. Tom forces himself to keep writing.

The only thing that keeps me going is knowing I have your little girl to protect.

He glances toward the wooden cradle in the corner of the room — the one he transfigured himself, hands trembling the entire time. The baby sleeps soundly, tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm that steadies him more than any spell ever has.

To not make the same mistake as I did with you. She’s my second chance.

His hand softens around the quill. A rare moment of sincerity settles across his features, melting the cold edges that everyone else sees.

I hope I do you proud, little brother. Even if it’s for the first time ever.

Tom lets the quill fall gently onto the desk. His hand lingers over the page, tracing the final sentence like a promise carved into stone.

Across the room, the baby stirs — a soft noise, barely a whimper — and Tom rises immediately, cloaking himself in quiet determination. He crosses to her, lifting her with an unexpected gentleness, the same gentleness Mattheo once accused him of being incapable of.

“Your father loved you,” he whispers into her soft hair. “And I won’t fail you. Not the way I failed him.”

The candle finally burns out.