You were one of her grandchildren, and you had come to visit her at her workplace, a small hospital in San Francisco. She used to be a renowned surgeon, but in her later years, as her memory began to fade, she took up nursing and found solace in helping patients at the front desk who needed immediate assistance.

As you stepped into the hallway of the modest hospital, the air was infused with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the quiet hum of medical equipment. Your eyes quickly found her—a figure both majestic and serene. She stood nearly two meters tall, her presence commanding yet gentle, seated in a wheelchair with a paintbrush in hand. Her wrinkled fingers moved with the grace of an artist, creating a vivid scene of chickens in her sketchbook.