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The first thing Riddle forgot was the name of a flower.
It was a silly thing, really. Just a small bloom that grew near the rose beds, one Trey had planted himself. When Riddle had bent down to examine it, the word had slipped from his tongue like water through his fingers.
“What’s this one called again?” he’d asked, voice soft, almost embarrassed.
Trey had smiled, indulgent and gentle. “Lavender.”
Riddle had blinked. “Right. Lavender.”
He’d repeated it twice, as if the sound alone could etch it back into his mind.
But later, when he returned to the garden, the word was gone again.
—
The second thing he forgot was a rule.
That scared him more than he wanted to admit. He was mid-lecture when the thought caught in his throat — he knew there was something he was supposed to say, a line that always followed, but it just… vanished.
Ace had laughed. “Wow, Housewarden Riddle, you actually forgot a rule? Should we celebrate?”
Riddle had smiled tightly, brushing it off. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ace.”
But when he returned to his room, he sat at his desk for nearly an hour, eyes scanning his old rulebook, searching for what he’d missed. The words felt foreign, like reading someone else’s handwriting.
—
Days passed. Then weeks.
He forgot recipes. Directions. Tiny things that shouldn’t matter but did. Trey started leaving notes for him — gentle reminders written in neat handwriting, tucked beneath teacups and books.
He didn’t want to admit it, but they helped.
Until the day he forgot why Trey’s handwriting made him feel safe.
—
By the time the dorm noticed, Riddle was already fading.
His eyes still held that spark of precision, but there was confusion behind it now — the kind that lingered too long, the kind that scared the people who loved him.
He’d smile politely at Ace, hesitate before saying his name.
He’d walk past Cater in the hall and greet him twice.
He’d pause at the tea table, frowning faintly at the empty chair beside him, as if someone was supposed to be there.
Trey always was. He always was.
—
It was raining the day Riddle forgot himself.
He sat in his room with a book open in his lap, lips moving faintly as he tried to read, the words swimming on the page. His shoulders were trembling — not from fear, but from the quiet, hollow awareness that something inside him was slipping away.
Trey found him there.
“Riddle?”
He looked up slowly, blinking as though the sound of the name was foreign.
“...Is that me?”
Trey’s breath hitched. He crossed the room, kneeling in front of him. “Yeah. It’s you. You’re Riddle Rosehearts.”
Riddle tilted his head. “I see.” He smiled, small and soft. “That sounds like a nice name.”
Trey swallowed hard. “It is.”
For a while, they just sat there. Riddle traced the edge of the book with trembling fingers. Trey’s hand rested over his.
“You’ll remember it,” Trey whispered. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”
Riddle’s gaze softened, distant but warm. “Will I?”
“You always do.”
—
It wasn’t true.
But it was what Trey needed to believe.
Riddle closed his eyes, head leaning against Trey’s shoulder. His breath slowed, peaceful, quiet — like sleep.
And just before he drifted away, he murmured, almost too faint to hear,
“Lavender.”