Tom Riddle, the son of the Dark Lord, has always been burdened by the weight of his lineage, destined to follow in his father's footsteps as the heir to a reign of terror. Yet, in Rosie Hart, he found a glimmer of hope-a love that made him dream of...
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‼️ THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT THAT COULD BE TRIGGERING. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION ‼
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ROSIE HAD LONG SINCE LOST TRACK OF HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED SINCE SHE'D BEEN IMPRISONED IN THE ABANDONED COTTAGE.
The days and nights blurred together in an endless, torturous cycle, each moment crawling by as if time itself had ceased to exist. The once quaint and rustic charm of the cottage now felt more like a sinister trap, its decaying walls and rotting beams closing in on her, suffocating her spirit. The small, weathered structure, once a place of life and shelter, had become a cold, desolate prison.
The air inside was thick with the smell of dampness and mold, a staleness that clung to her skin and made her shiver even when she wasn't freezing. The crumbling stone walls, streaked with grime and mildew, loomed over her like the remnants of a forgotten life. Cracks ran like veins through the walls, some wide enough to allow the biting wind to whistle through, filling the space with an eerie, haunting sound that only deepened her isolation. The single window, covered in grime and dust, allowed little light to filter in, leaving the room in a perpetual gloom.
The furniture, what little remained, had long since been abandoned—broken chairs, splintered tables, and a moldy, moth-eaten rug that did nothing to soften the cold floor beneath her. A heavy, oppressive silence filled the air, broken only by the occasional drip of water leaking from the sagging ceiling or the distant creak of the wind bending the weak, fragile walls. Even the sounds of nature outside—birds, rustling leaves—seemed muffled, as though the world beyond this wretched place no longer existed.
Rosie's world had shrunk to the size of this tiny, decaying room, the suffocating confinement gnawing at her soul. The once bright and vibrant memories of her past, filled with love and laughter, now seemed like cruel illusions, distant and unreachable. She had tried to resist, to fight back, but the relentless despair of the cottage—its isolation and decay—had begun to wear her down, until the walls themselves felt like they were closing in on her.
