Chapter 2 – Day 3
Another quiet morning.
The doctor woke at the same time he always did—precisely 9:00 AM. He wasn't the kind of man who used alarms. He didn't need them. His body, like his life, operated on clockwork. Mechanical, predictable, almost boring.
He dressed with his usual routine: shirt, coat, glasses. White coat over the shoulders. A light sigh left his lips as he stepped out of his room and into the small corridor of his clinic.
There she was again.
Sylvie.
Sitting in the exact same corner she had chosen on her first day.
Her silver hair draped around her face like a veil, eyes focused on the wooden floor. As soon as she heard his footsteps, she looked up and offered a soft, rehearsed smile.
"Good morning, Master."
The doctor nodded. "Morning."
Their exchange had become part of his new morning rhythm. Wake up. Greet Sylvie. Work. Repeat.
He went about his usual tasks—cleaning the counters, wiping down the equipment, checking the herb jars and arranging the shelves of medicine bottles with near-surgical precision.
The day itself was unremarkable. Only a few patients came through the front door, most with mundane issues. One had a cough, another wanted something for joint pain, and a mother came by asking for powdered chamomile for her child's restless sleep.
He helped them, just like always.
Sylvie said little. She never interrupted, never wandered, never got in the way. She sat with her hands on her lap, quiet as a shadow. Sometimes she watched him from across the room. Sometimes she stared at the walls, or the floor, or the window that let in beams of soft morning light.
Hours passed like that—quiet and slow.
Until mid-afternoon, while the doctor was mixing herbs in the backroom, Sylvie approached him.
He didn't hear her footsteps. She moved like a ghost. Only when she softly called out did he realize she was behind him.
"Master," she said, her voice nearly lost under the sound of grinding herbs. "Is there… anything I can do?"
He looked up, blinking at her.
Sylvie was standing with her hands clasped in front of her, fingers nervously fidgeting. Her eyes were cautious, like someone afraid they had spoken out of turn.
"…Do?" he echoed.
"I've been sitting all day," she said. "I want to help. Even just a little."
The doctor stared at her for a moment, then slowly set his mortar and pestle down.
He scratched the back of his head.
"Well," he muttered, "I guess there's no harm in it…"
He tapped his chin, thinking.
"…There's no need to do anything big. But if you really want to help, you could start by sweeping the floor. Maybe dust the front room. Nothing complicated."
Sylvie's eyes lit up—not brightly, but noticeably.
"I understand," she said quickly. "I'll do my best."
Before he could say anything else, she bowed slightly and turned to leave the room.
He blinked again.
"…She really wants something to do, huh."
He returned to mixing herbs while occasionally glancing through the door.
A few minutes later, he saw Sylvie holding a broom he hadn't used in a while. She gripped it with awkward hands, studying it like it was a foreign tool. But she got the hang of it quickly, brushing the dust from the wooden floor gently, carefully, like she was afraid of breaking something.
She didn't hum. She didn't complain. She just worked.
It was the first time she'd moved with intention since she arrived.
Later, when he stepped into the front room, he noticed the difference immediately.
The floor looked cleaner than it had in weeks. The windows had been wiped. Even the shelves had been dusted—though she clearly couldn't reach the top ones.
Sylvie was crouched near the door, quietly collecting a pile of dust into a pan.
"Done already?" he asked.
She flinched slightly, then turned and bowed again.
"I hope it's okay," she said. "I didn't break anything."
He looked around.
"No… it's fine. It's good," he muttered. "Better than I expected, actually."
A faint, almost invisible smile tugged at her lips.
"I'm glad," she said. "I like cleaning. It… it helps keep my mind quiet."
The doctor didn't know how to respond to that.
So instead, he reached out and gently patted her head.
It was his default gesture now. Something he did without thinking. A small, silent way to acknowledge her.
Sylvie didn't flinch this time. She leaned into the touch just slightly.
It didn't last long—just a few seconds—before he pulled his hand back and walked toward the medicine shelf.
He returned to his work, and she returned to hers.
It was a quiet partnership, but not an uncomfortable one.
When evening came, the doctor stood up and stretched. His shoulders ached slightly from being hunched over all day, and his stomach grumbled.
"Guess it's dinner time," he mumbled.
He moved into the small kitchen, grabbed two bowls, and began preparing a modest meal. Nothing extravagant—just soup, boiled vegetables, and a bit of rice.
He called Sylvie over. She appeared quickly, having already washed her hands.
They sat at the table together.
Just like the previous night, Sylvie hesitated before eating. But this time, she didn't ask if she was allowed. She only whispered, "Thank you," before lifting her spoon.
She still ate slowly, savoring each bite like it was sacred. But there was a bit more calm in her posture. A little less fear.
They ate in silence, and when the meal was done, she quietly took their bowls to the sink without needing to be told.
"Tomorrow," the doctor said as he watched her, "I'll need to go into town to buy supplies. You can come with me."
Sylvie paused.
"…Outside?"
"Yeah."
"I see." She lowered her gaze. "If I'm with you, people won't get angry, right?"
He frowned. "Why would anyone get angry?"
"…Because someone like me doesn't belong outside."
He didn't answer at first.
Then he walked up to her, gently placed a hand on her head again, and said,
"You're not 'someone like you.' You're Sylvie."
She blinked up at him.
"…Yes, Master."
The doctor left her with that, retreating into his room.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He never wanted a companion.
But here she was—fragile, scarred, and uncertain.
And here he was—quiet, tired, and not particularly kind.
But somehow, this fragile girl was starting to fit into the empty spaces of his life. A presence that didn't demand, didn't shout, didn't take. She just… existed, softly.
And maybe that was enough.
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To Be Continue