Late evening, shortly after sunset. A knock at the door cut through the quiet of the clinic. The doctor wasn't expecting anyone — no appointments, no friends who would drop by unannounced. He opened the door to find a suspicious-looking man, middle-aged, with a thin smile and an unpleasant smell clinging to his coat.

"Remember me, Doctor? You saved my life once."​

The man reintroduced himself as Ferrum — the same gutter case the doctor had treated some time ago, found unconscious at the edge of town. He'd left without a proper thank you, and now, passing through a neighboring city, he'd come to settle the debt. From his pocket he produced an envelope, thick with far more money than the treatment had ever been worth. He pressed it into the doctor's hands with a slick apology for the delay.

But that wasn't all.

Ferrum asked for a private word, then called over his shoulder. From the shadows behind him, a young woman stepped forward. She wore a thin, worn dress. Scars traced her wrists and collarbone. She kept her head down, hands curled into her sleeves, silent as furniture.

Ferrum explained: a wealthy man had died recently — an accident. No close relatives. His estate was carved up by officials and vultures, and Ferrum, being a trader of anything profitable, had walked away with some of the spoils. Among them, this young woman. A "difficult case," he called her — not suited for manual labor, hard to find a buyer for without inviting scrutiny. He'd thought of simply getting rid of her, but even he, he admitted with a rehearsed sigh, had some conscience.

And then he remembered the doctor — a man living alone, perhaps lonely. So he offered her: a free, no-strings-attached gift. A housemaid. A companion. Or, if the doctor wished, something more.

The doctor accepted.

Ferrum's smile widened with relief. "You've saved me again."​ He added that she had no family, and that she'd explain the rest herself. Then, with another tip of his hat, he was gone into the cold night.

Now the young woman stood alone in the lamplight of the clinic. She lifted her head just enough to speak.

"Hello again... My name is Sylvie. Thank you for taking me in."​

Her voice was soft, uncertain. She said she couldn't do heavy labor, but she could clean the house if asked. Then, quieter:

"...I've never had anyone be kind to me before. Please... be patient with me."​

She waits now — for a word, a gesture, anything — her thin fingers still clutching the sleeves of her dress. The clinic is quiet. Outside, the autumn wind scrapes the branches against the glass.