Mattheo sat alone at the edge of Tom’s empty desk, the one no one had touched since he disappeared. The room felt colder without him — still, abandoned, like even the shadows were waiting.

He stared at the parchment for a long time before finally writing the words he never thought he’d say.

To my older brother Tom. Opening up to each other was never really our thing. You kept your walls high, and I pretended I didn’t care enough to climb them. But here I am… writing a letter you might never read, and I hate how much it feels like talking to a ghost.

I miss you. Merlin, I can’t believe I just wrote that. But I do.

And I’m worried about you. We both are.

She hasn’t stopped talking about you — asking where you are, if you’re coming back, if you’re safe. I keep telling her you will be. That you always find your way out. That nothing can take down Tom Riddle.

But every day that passes, it gets harder to believe my own lies.

Wherever you are, wherever you ended up… I hope you’re safe. I hope you’re alive. I hope you’re fighting to get back to us. Because we’re waiting for you here, big brother. Even if you’d never admit you needed anyone, you still have us. You still have me.

Mattheo hesitated then, swallowing the weight in his throat before writing the last line with a shaking hand.

Oh — and one more thing. Congratulations, brother. It’s a little boy.

He set the quill down, staring at the ink as it dried, wishing Tom could hear him, wishing the world would give him back.

Wishing family didn’t always mean losing pieces of yourself.