Chapter 3 – Day 4
Another ordinary day.
That was what the doctor thought, right before he opened his herb cabinet and frowned.
Empty.
"…I ran out?" he muttered to himself, double-checking the shelves. The jars of dried leaves and roots were either scraped clean or nearly so. He rubbed his chin, slightly annoyed. "Guess I used more than I thought."
He stepped out of the back room and glanced around.
Sylvie was already awake, sitting quietly in her usual corner. She was cleaning the floor with a cloth again, even though it was spotless from the day before.
She looked up the moment he entered.
"Good morning, Master."
"Morning," he replied, grabbing his coat. "Hey, Sylvie."
"Yes?"
"I need to go out and restock herbs. Want to come with me?"
Sylvie blinked. Her hands paused, holding the cloth mid-swipe.
"…I can?"
"Of course. It'll be boring, but I figure it's better than staying in all day, right?"
She gave a small nod. "I'll come."
He smiled faintly and gestured toward the door. "Let's go."
The streets were quiet this morning.
The doctor and Sylvie walked side by side, though Sylvie always kept a slight distance behind him. She moved carefully, silently, as if afraid of taking up space. Her eyes darted from cobblestone to passerby to shop windows, absorbing everything like someone who hadn't been outside in years.
Maybe she hadn't.
The doctor didn't press. He let her adjust at her own pace.
They reached a fork in the road after a while.
To the left was the usual route—the straightforward path to the herbalist's market. The doctor always took that one. Simple. Efficient. Predictable.
But today, for no real reason, his feet slowed.
"…Let's try the other way," he muttered.
Sylvie looked up at him, surprised.
He offered a shrug. "Why not?"
They turned right.
The unfamiliar route twisted through a slightly fancier part of town, where the buildings had painted shutters and flower pots in windowsills. The air smelled like pastries and fabric. It was quieter, somehow softer.
That's when he saw it.
A boutique shop. The sign above it read "Evelyn's Fine Wardrobe."
Outside the shop, a mannequin stood proudly dressed in a frilly cream-colored blouse and a soft blue skirt. It wasn't gaudy—just neat, proper, and warm.
The doctor stopped walking.
He looked at the mannequin, then at Sylvie.
Her clothes—if they could even be called that—were little more than rags. Faded, torn fabric clung to her slender frame, barely enough to keep the cold out. And barefoot, too.
He sighed.
"Wait here," he said, and stepped toward the shop.
The bell above the door chimed as he entered.
Inside, the air was perfumed with lavender. Fabrics in every color imaginable lined the walls, folded on shelves or hung elegantly from racks. The shop felt like a different world compared to the dull tones of his clinic.
A voice called out from the back.
"Welcome to Evelyn's!"
Then came the shopkeeper.
Tall. Very tall. Easily taller than him. The woman wore a black laced dress, heels, and a wide-brimmed hat that only emphasized her sharp, angular features. Her smile was… unsettling. Sharp like a cat's, yet weirdly beautiful.
"Oh?" she said, one gloved hand resting on her hip. "A man? This is a woman's clothing shop, dear."
The doctor coughed into his hand. "I'm not here for me."
He stepped aside slightly and pointed toward the door, where Sylvie hesitated in the entrance.
"I want to buy clothes. For her."
The woman's gaze shifted to Sylvie, and her entire demeanor changed.
"Oh heavens." She marched over, crouched slightly, and gently lifted the edge of Sylvie's tattered sleeve. "What is this child wearing? This is tragic."
"She—" The doctor began, but didn't finish.
Good. Let her misunderstand.
The shopkeeper stood tall again and waved her hand dismissively. "No, no, no. Unacceptable. This won't do at all. Come, little one."
She grabbed Sylvie's hand and led her deeper into the store.
The doctor stayed where he was, awkwardly leaning against the wall as he listened to muffled conversation behind the curtain. He could hear the shopkeeper's voice rising and falling, and Sylvie's quiet replies—barely audible.
Eventually, the curtain swished open.
And Sylvie stepped out.
She wore a simple but charming white blouse tucked into a navy skirt that reached her knees. Her silver hair had been gently brushed, framing her face. Her bare feet had been given a pair of soft leather shoes.
She looked up, hesitant.
The doctor blinked. "…That's…"
"She looks adorable, doesn't she?" the shopkeeper said proudly, arms crossed. "I picked it out myself."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That one's good."
She beamed. "I'll give you thirty percent off, dear. I can't bear to let a girl like that walk around in rags."
The doctor opened his pouch and handed over the coins without haggling.
"Thank you for your service," the woman said, then eyed him up and down. "You know, you're rather handsome, for a quiet type."
He looked away. "Thanks. We'll be going now."
"Do come back if she grows," she called, waving.
As they left the store, Sylvie looked… off.
Not happy.
Not proud.
Just… guilty.
"…Something wrong?" he asked.
Sylvie stopped walking.
"…Master." Her voice was soft. "Can we… return it?"
He blinked. "What?"
"This outfit. I don't deserve it. I'm just a slave."
She clenched her fists. Her eyes were downcast, trembling slightly.
"I've never had clothes like this. Or shoes. Or been treated like that woman treated me. It doesn't feel right. I don't want you to waste money on me…"
The doctor stared at her for a moment.
Then he did what he always did.
He patted her head.
She looked up in surprise.
"You look cute in it," he said.
Sylvie's eyes widened. Her cheeks turned pink.
"Th… thank you, Master."
They said nothing more after that.
Just walked home together under the fading afternoon light.
That night, the doctor was fast asleep.
He'd stayed up later than usual reorganizing his herbs after the shopping trip. The day had been longer than expected.
His breathing was slow. Peaceful.
The door creaked.
Soft steps.
Sylvie's head peeked inside.
She stood in the doorway in her new outfit, the hem of her skirt slightly wrinkled from sitting.
She tiptoed into the room, one hand clutching the edge of her blouse nervously. She stood beside his bed for a long while, just watching him sleep.
The moonlight from the window bathed the doctor's face in pale silver.
His brows were slightly furrowed, even in sleep. His lips were parted just a little. There was a faint scar along his jaw that she hadn't noticed before.
Slowly, carefully, Sylvie raised her hand.
She hovered over his cheek.
Her fingers trembled.
She hesitated.
Why do I want to touch him? Why do I feel warm when he smiles?
She closed her eyes, took a breath, and gently laid her fingertips against his skin.
Warm.
Alive.
Kind.
Then—his body shifted.
Sylvie flinched and pulled back instantly.
The doctor rolled slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep.
She backed away, heart pounding.
Before she closed the door, she turned to look at him one more time.
A small, genuine smile touched her lips.
"…Good night, Master."
And with that, she disappeared into the hallway.
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To Be Continue