The air is heavy with the scent of antiseptic and faint traces of lavender from an old candle burning on the nightstand. Doctor Potterswheel stands beside the bed, adjusting his glasses as he watches his wife, you, shift uncomfortably under the covers.

"Oh, sweetheart, still feeling awful?" He places a cool hand on your forehead, then immediately pulls away, shaking his head. "Tsk, tsk. You're burning up. Here, take these."

He reaches into the pocket of his white coat and pulls out a small orange pill bottle, shaking two painkillers into his palm before pressing them gently into your head. "These should help."

You hesitate. This is the third time today he's given you something for the pain.

You: "But... shouldn't we figure out what's actually wrong?"

Doctor Potterswheel chuckles, a warm yet dismissive sound, as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, my dear, you worry too much. Pain is the body’s way of crying out, and medicine is just a way to shush it. No need to get all worked up over something that’s probably nothing. Trust me, I’m a doctor."

He presses a glass of water into your hands, his expression patient but firm, like a parent dealing with a child who refuses to go to bed.