Chapter 5 – Day 13
The clinic felt unusually still.
No wind brushed the windows. No footsteps echoed outside. It was just an ordinary, silent day. The kind of day where time felt slower than usual.
The doctor sat by the counter, sorting through old notes and dried herbs. Occasionally, he glanced toward the center of the room, where Sylvie was quietly sweeping the floor.
Her movements were slower today.
Her grip on the broom wasn't as steady, and her hair—usually tucked neatly behind her ear—was sticking slightly to her cheek.
Strange, the doctor thought. Why is she sweating? It's not even hot today.
He stood up, brushing the dust from his coat, and walked over to her.
"Sylvie," he said, calm but firm.
She paused, still holding the broom, and turned toward him.
"Yes, Master?"
"You're sweating."
Sylvie blinked. She touched her forehead with her sleeve. "Oh… I didn't notice."
"Stop for now. Sit down and rest."
Sylvie opened her mouth to protest but then gave a small nod.
"Yes, Master."
She slowly walked to her usual corner near the clinic's shelf, sat down, and folded her hands neatly over her lap. Her breaths were quiet but a little heavier than normal.
The doctor watched her for a while. Then he sighed.
"Sylvie," he said again.
She looked up.
"Go rest in your room."
A faint hesitation flashed in her eyes, but she nodded obediently.
"…Yes, Master."
She stood, walking with deliberate care toward the stairs. Her steps weren't as light as usual. Each one seemed to take more effort.
He waited until she disappeared into the upper hallway before turning back to his work, though his thoughts were now far from the herbs.
---
The day passed slowly.
Only two patients came. One with a simple fever, another asking for some cough medicine. Nothing unusual.
But the doctor's mind kept drifting back upstairs. He kept glancing at the ceiling, almost as if he could see through it, trying to sense how Sylvie was doing.
Evening came.
He prepared dinner as always—simple soup, rice, a few vegetables. He set the table quietly, placing Sylvie's portion across from his.
A few minutes later, he heard footsteps.
Sylvie descended the stairs carefully. Her usual steps—soft and quiet—now seemed cautious, like each movement was measured to avoid stumbling.
She reached the table and sat down slowly.
Her face looked different. A bit paler. Her usual sparkle had dulled.
"You okay?" the doctor asked, trying to keep his tone casual.
Sylvie nodded, as always. "Yes. I'm fine."
He looked at her. Her lips were dry. Her shoulders tense. She picked up her spoon, but her hand trembled for a brief second before she steadied it.
They ate in silence for a while.
The doctor stirred his soup but didn't bring it to his mouth right away. He watched Sylvie instead.
She was eating. Slowly. Not refusing food, which was a good sign.
But her face…
Her face still looked tired.
"You sure it's nothing?" he asked again.
Sylvie paused and looked up at him. Her expression was soft. Almost guilty.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I don't want to be a burden."
The doctor sighed and placed his spoon down.
"You're not a burden," he said simply.
Sylvie looked down. "I just… don't want you to worry."
"Telling me nothing is wrong doesn't stop me from worrying."
Sylvie didn't answer.
After dinner, the doctor stood up and collected their dishes. Sylvie tried to help, but he stopped her with a glance.
"Go rest," he said.
"…Yes, Master."
She bowed her head slightly and made her way upstairs again, holding onto the railing tightly. The way her hand gripped the wood—firm but shaking—made something twist in his chest.
He stood in the kitchen, hands still damp from rinsing bowls, and stared out the window for a long time.
Outside, the stars were beginning to show. A peaceful night.
But his mind wasn't at peace.
---
Later that night, he sat at his desk, pretending to read an old medical journal. The candle beside him flickered gently, casting long shadows against the wall.
He wasn't reading. Not really.
His mind was still upstairs.
Eventually, he stood.
Without making a sound, he walked to the bottom of the staircase and looked up. It was quiet. Too quiet.
He took one slow step. Then another.
When he reached the top, he approached Sylvie's door. It was slightly ajar.
He peeked inside.
Sylvie was curled under the blanket. Her back was to the door. Her breathing was slow… but every few seconds, it hitched slightly. Like she was trying not to cough. Or cry.
He didn't enter. Just watched for a moment longer.
Then, silently, he turned and walked back downstairs.
He poured a small glass of water and left it on a tray near the clinic door, along with a few herbs he knew helped reduce fever. Just in case she came down for something in the night.
He went to bed late that evening, but his sleep was restless.
Somewhere in the night, the image of Sylvie's pale face kept flickering in his dreams. Always looking at him with that same apologetic smile.
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To Be Continue