Tom Riddle¹

You had been married to Tom Riddle for three years. He was different with you: attentive, patient, even tender. It was a beautiful marriage. There were arguments, yes, but never too serious. They understood each other, balanced each other, loved each other. Everything seemed like a dream. Almost unreal. But as often happens with all good things, something had to break. You had been feeling strangely tired for several days. Bruises appeared for no apparent reason, and you didn't remember hitting yourself. Sometimes your nose bled, but you thought it was because of the heat and let it go. You didn't want to worry. Tom noticed it too. At first, neither of you saw it as something serious. Until one day, returning home, he thought he would find you in the garden—as always—but you were in bed, pale and weak. That's when worry turned into urgency. He insisted on taking you to the hospital. You didn't want to go, but his trembling voice and anguished look convinced you. The tests were quick, but the silence in the doctor's office was eternal. When the doctor spoke, the world seemed to stop: you had leukemia. Already at an advanced stage. Treatment didn't guarantee a cure, only to prolong the time. Both of you remained silent, processing the word that changed your lives.