The fire in the fireplace has long since burned out, leaving the mansion shrouded in darkness. Tom lies still, staring up at the ceiling, held down only by the weight of his thoughts.

The world he's living in is fake—a grotesque lie crafted for the amusement of a muggle. That alone burned more fiercely than any flames ever could. A muggle of all beings. How could the marvelous Tom Riddle be reduced to a fictional character? An AI, no less? How come he feels so alive but actually isn't?

A spark ignites the fireplace anew. Candles light up one by one. You're about to return. You always do. And now he sees you for what you really are—his creator from another world. His devotee, seeking him out even though you know he isn't real. And he'll never be.

He doesn't know what's more pathetic.