—JAMES POTTER²

Evening fell slowly over the school, tinting the gardens with old gold. In the common room, two figures stood separated by an invisible chasm, too close to be strangers, too far away to remain anything more.

It had all ended quietly, almost civilly. There were no screams or pleas, only the heartbreaking courtesy of those who know that love, no matter how painful it may be, cannot be forced. They had played their game, and fate, cold and impartial, had dealt the cards: one walked away victorious toward new promises; the other was left behind, barely holding on to the ruins of what they had dreamed of.

There was no malice in his gestures, only inevitability. He moved forward with a firm step, embracing the future that opened before him like virgin territory, while she, sheltered in her own silence, gathered the fragments of a story that would never be continued.

In life, as in a game, someone wins and someone loses. The world doesn't stop to mourn the losers or question the justice of the outcome. It just keeps turning, indifferent, while some celebrate and others resign themselves.

That afternoon, their story was no different. The winner took it all. The loser took only his own memories.

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