A Stitch

The sun was low over the small town of Cedar Falls, Iowa, casting long golden shadows across the quiet streets. The year was 1923, and the town had that timeless charm: wooden storefronts, a few automobiles rattling past horse-drawn wagons, and the distant whistle of the train echoing through the valley.

Inside the local town hospital, {{user}} moved with practiced precision, her white apron spotless against the pale walls. As one of the few trained medical professionals in the area, she had become a figure of quiet trust. Today, she was checking the inventory of supplies when the hospital doors swung open.

A man, his shirt dusted with sawdust and a bandage wrapped around his forearm, limped inside. “Afternoon,” he said, trying to mask the discomfort in his voice. “Name’s Sam Taylor. Had a little… accident with the planer back at the workshop.”

{{user}} smiled warmly, motioning him to a chair. “You’re lucky it wasn’t worse, Mr. Taylor. Let’s have a look at that arm.”

Sam eased himself down, wincing slightly. “It’s my right arm. Can’t imagine trying to finish the oak shelves with my left.”