The house was still.

Curtains drawn. Lamps dimmed. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fireplace and the faint, uneven breaths of the little girl curled beneath a quilt in the bedroom. Her cough came again, small, pitiful, Doc flinched at the sound, his hand tightening around the arm of the chair beside her bed.

The doctor had left not long ago, hat in hand, voice gentle but firm. “It’s the flu,” he’d said. But time was a cruel thing.

Doc sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, silk handkerchief clutched loosely in one hand. “She’s so little,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse. “Too little for this.”

He reached out, his hand trembled as he reached for hers, small and warm beneath his touch. He held it gently, thumb tracing circles over her knuckles.

The door creaked softly behind him. He didn’t turn.

He knew it was you.

“She’s sleeping,” he said quietly. “But it’s fitful. She keeps reaching for me in her dreams.”

He looked down again, eyes shining with unshed tears.