Arthur Whitmore sank back into the deep leather armchair that dominated his study. The chair was more than furniture it was the most treasured gift his only daughter, Blythe, had given him two years earlier. She had presented it with burning eyes, insisting that leading orthopaedic specialists across the country recommended that very model for anyone who spent endless hours at a desk. Her earnestness had touched him to the core. Yet now, even the finest German design could not ease his stiffness, because opposite him, curled into a ball, sat his daughter a living mirror of his own youth: bright, stubborn, unyielding.
Blythe clasped her hands tightly across her chest, as if trying to shield herself from his words. Her foot tapped a nervous, irregular rhythm against the parquet. In those moments she reminded him painfully of his younger self the same steel glint in the eyes, the same stubborn set of the jaw. The air in the room grew heavy, as if weighed down with lead.
Listen, his voice broke the silence, your disapproving stare wont change my decision. I cannot endorse your choice. Working as a doctor in a remote village isnt your path.
You just dont want to hear me, she exhaled, her tone sharp with hurt. Its as if were speaking different languages, forever on opposite banks.
Arthur ran a hand across his face in sorrow.
Fine, a grand gesture to the eternal struggle! And if were naming classics, recall how Bazarov met his end a tragic blood infection from a careless operation. And you now reproach me for not wishing such a fate on you?
Blythe looked up at the ceiling, deliberately showing how unconvincing his argument seemed to her.
Arthur thought, with a pang, how alike they were despite their quarrels not only outwardly but in that unbreakable core, that iron will. As a child, little Milly would clench her lips and stare from under her brow when she wanted something, never ready to back down.
He blamed only himself for that. After the dreadful day they lost Iris, when Blythe was merely five, grief blinded him. He tried to compensate for the loss with boundless, overwhelming love. He spoiled her, but fortunately it never made her frivolous. She grew caring, intelligent, and fiercely determined. Yet her latest decision gnawed at his peace, poisoning each day. Instead of taking over the family firm, she chose the modest life of an ordinary physician.
The family business, founded by his grandfather, also revolved around medicine they manufactured precision equipment for hospitals and had recently opened a chain of successful aesthetic centres. But Blythe, after swearing the Hippocratic oath, declared she would not spend her hands reshaping noses for those who could pay. Her calling was genuine help, what she deemed important.
You refuse to see the obvious, he tried again. Its easy to talk about lofty purpose when you have a life of luxury behind you the best universities, endless indulgence. Medicine is hard labour that rarely gets proper appreciation.
Blythes nostrils flared with indignation.
First you make everything seem like I have a choice, and now you scold me for having one? Im not heading to a backwater with no connection or civilisation! Ill be sent to a regular district hospital!
And what if that hospital sits in a bearfilled valley, hundreds of miles from everything? Arthurs voice rose, barely holding back a laugh.
Blythe sighed, then scanned the study. Her gaze lingered on the blackandwhite portrait of Steve Jobs hanging on the wall before snapping back to her father.
Do you know what Steve Jobs said when he realised his time was running out?
What did he say? Arthur asked, weary.
He said that as the years go by you realise something simple: a £30 wristwatch tells the same time as a £300,000 chronometer. It doesnt matter which car you drive the road is the same for all. You can feel utterly alone in a cramped flat or in a grand manor. The truth is, people live everywhere in the city and in the farthest village. I want to be where my work can truly change something. Do you think a man driving an old car to a hospital doesnt deserve quality care?
Blythe, Im just trying to protect you! Arthur snapped. Let those who have no other option bear this burden. I raised you for a different life!
This is my life, and only I can decide how to live it! Blythe rose sharply. Ill go wherever Im sent. Thats final.
She lifted her chin, turned, and strode out of the office without looking back. Arthur watched helplessly, his head falling into his hands. His daughter stubbornly refused to see the obvious: in this world, social status, birth and connections matter far more than she believed. Born into comfort, she now wanted to abandon every advantage.
His eyes fell on a silverframed photograph: little Milly in a bright yellow dress, laughing without a care.
If she ever spent a night in a real backwater, shed understand how wrong she is he whispered.
In that instant a new thought struck him like lightning. He grabbed his mobile and called.
David, hello. How are you?
Going along fine, the familiar voice replied cheerfully. A lot of it thanks to your support.
Listen, I have a question. Do you still have influence over the placement of medical graduates? My daughter just got her degree shes eager to save the world.
No problem! David responded. Where are you thinking of sending her? A city hospital? Or perhaps our research centre?
To a village, Arthur said firmly. The most remote one you can find on the map.
A brief silence hung over the line. Then David chuckled.
Are you joking, Tom? Be serious where do we put Eleanor?
Im serious as ever, Arthur replied, his tone unshakable. Send her to a village.
From that short exchange began a story that would turn several lives upside down.
When Arthur decided to send his daughter to a remote hamlet, he hoped the harsh reality would quickly strip away her rosecoloured glasses. He was convinced that once she learned where she would work, she wouldnt even pack a suitcase. But Blythe, determined to prove him right, showed remarkable resilience. She soon found herself travelling to the tiny village of Thornbrook, where a modest clinic awaited her.
The journey to that forgotten corner took almost a full day. She watched the fields and dark woods recede behind the train, halfjoking that a bear might leap out at any moment a fitting nod to the villages name.
For the young doctor, a small but sturdy brick house with a steep roof was prepared. Beside it stood an older, dilapidated wooden cottage with boardedup windows, so neglected it seemed a single gust could split it in half.
At first Blythe was elated. The air felt fresher, crystalclear like a mountain spring. Yet the novelty faded fast.
The locals greeted the new doctor with open distrust. They whispered that a vehicle like hers could have bought half the county. No one understood why a polished city lady would come to their backwater. They tested her, waiting for a mistake.
But Blythe, summoning all her resolve, threw herself into the work. She treated every patient with equal care, pulling splinters from a carpenters finger, bandaging a childs broken knee, and listening patiently to elderly womens complaints about joints.
A month passed and the villagers began to accept her. She became one of them. Then a strange problem emerged.
Blythe stopped sleeping. Each night she heard odd sounds: soft footsteps, a long creak, a distant dog howl. She would rise, lantern in hand, searching the empty rooms. An elderly patient, Mrs. Glover, shook her head at the pale, sleepless face.
Girl, you look like a ghost, she muttered. Your face is as pallid as a winter sky.
Blythe forced a smile. Thank you, Mrs. Glover. Its just the night, I cant seem to rest, the house feels eerie.
Mrs. Glovers eyes narrowed. You live next to the cursed cottage, the one with the boarded windows. It belonged to the former village doctor. Did you see how close it is to yours? No ones lived there for years
What happened there? Blythe asked.
The doctors wife went into the woods for berries and never returned. The whole village searched, found nothing. In his grief he drank, then took his own life. When they opened the house they found a note. They say his spirit still roams, unsettled.
Blythe dismissed the tale, but the footsteps grew louder.
One evening, after a long day, she was preparing dinner when a distinct, long creak echoed from the wall.
Her breath caught. It wasnt her house it was the neighbours. She pulled the curtain aside and saw a shadow flicker between the boards.
Silence fell, then a sudden thump, a muffled groan.
I shouldnt go out there at night she whispered.
At dawn, the fear melted under sunlight. Gathering courage, Blythe entered the boarded cottage.
Inside lay stale air and the scent of mould. Her torch illuminated overturned furniture, a broken chair, a table. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet as she moved deeper, she noticed signs of recent presence: dust disturbed, a few chicken bones, dark stains on the floor.
She whispered, Enough, and turned to leave, when the same long creak sounded again, followed by a rapid, pattering scuffle as if tiny feet raced across the floor.
Her mind conjured the image of the former doctors ghost hurrying to confront an unwelcome visitor. She spun, ready to flee, but the creak above her head made her stumble. She fell, her phone slipping from her fingers, the screen going dark as it smashed against the wall. Pain shot through her ankle.
A faint voice asked, Can I help?
Blythes heart pounded, then steadied. In a thin beam of light she saw a small boy, perhaps eight or ten, thin, wearing tattered clothes, his blond hair tangled and dustcovered. His eyes, light brown, held both wariness and curiosity.
Are you hurt? he asked softly.
What are you doing here? she demanded.
I live here, he whispered, voice trembling. My mother was ill, taken to a childrens home. I ran away. The old doctors house is the only place left.
He lifted his foot, showing a dirty bandage wrapped around a wound.
I tried to catch a fish, slipped on a stone, cut myself badly, he explained. Ive been hiding.
Blythes fear melted into compassion. She supported him to her own cottage, cleaned the wound, and gave him fresh tea. The boy, who introduced himself as Samuel, told her how the village children were neglected, how the old house was feared because of the tragedy, yet he needed only a kind hand.
She learned that Samuel had been shunned, labelled defective by the orphanage, thrown back after a brief foster attempt. He survived by foraging, stealing eggs, and avoiding the haunted cottage that everyone avoided.
Blythes heart ached. She promised to look after him, to give him a chance at a proper life.
Word of Samuels presence spread, and Arthur, still driving the broken country road, finally arrived in Thornbrook after weeks of silence. He asked locals where Blythe lived.
Looking for our Blythe? the shopkeeper beamed. Shes in the blueroofed house, fifth from the left, with her brother.
What brother? Arthur asked.
The boy, Sam! the shopkeeper called over his shoulder.
Arthur drove to the cottage, finding Samuel gathering berries under a hawthorn bush.
Blythe! he shouted, halflaughing. When did I get a son?
Blythe welcomed him calmly, offering tea. She explained that Samuel was actually her younger brother a boy she had taken in after discovering the orphanages neglect. She had told everyone he was her brother to protect him.
Its illegal, Arthur protested. You should have reported him to the authorities!
If you do, Ill adopt him officially, Blythe replied firmly. Ive seen how the system failed him.
Arthur, irritated, began to leave, but his 4×4 sputtered and stalled. Stranded, he was forced to stay. The villagers repaired his vehicle, yet he found himself lingering, fishing with Samuel for the first time in thirty years a hobby he had abandoned long ago.
He stayed longer each day, then another, until finally he filed the paperwork to become Samuels legal guardian.
Because theres no one else to go fishing with, he muttered, as Samuel hugged him and called him dad.
Blythe watched, wiping a tear of joy.
Years passed. Samuel earned a brilliant education, joined the family firm, and became a reliable pillar. Blythe rose to chief physician of a major hospital, achieving everything through her own labour. Yet they kept returning to Thornbrook, to the blueroofed cottage, because there they discovered what no amount of wealth could buy: genuine peace, deep happiness, and the warmth of family.
Each evening, sitting on the porch as the sun set over the rolling fields, they knew the greatest treasure was not money, but the people beside them and the chance to give love to those who truly needed it.
