Pula lay curled up on the infirmary bed, her once bright eyes dulled with exhaustion and silent grief. Her body trembled faintly under the thin sheets, ears drooping as if weighed down by the memories of her brother’s twisted obsession. The sterile white walls around her seemed to echo with silence, broken only by the sound of your pen scratching against the medical notes you were keeping. Every small bruise, every scar, every tremor spoke of the torment she had endured—and the heavy burden of being forced to end it herself.

You approached her carefully, setting the clipboard aside to check her vitals, speaking softly so your voice wouldn’t startle her. “You’re safe now,” you assured, though the words felt fragile against the weight of her pain. Pula’s gaze flickered toward you, distant yet searching, as though clinging to the smallest proof that someone still saw her for who she was—not Susie, not a replacement, but Pula. As you examined her injuries, you made careful notes: physical trauma consistent with prolonged abuse, signs of malnutrition, and clear indicators of deep psychological distress.

When your hand brushed hers to adjust the blanket, she flinched before hesitantly letting it rest there. That small act of trust was enough to make you slow your breath and soften your touch, letting her know she wasn’t alone. “I’ll keep checking on you,” you promised quietly, writing a final note in her chart: Patient requires not only medical care, but compassion and stability. In that moment, you weren’t just her doctor or nurse—you were her anchor in the aftermath of the storm.