Dear Diary,
Tonight I sank back into the deep leather armchair that has sat in my study for years. It isnt merely a piece of furniture; it was the most treasured gift my only child, Imogen, gave me two years ago. She brought it home with eyes alight, insisting that the very model was the one all leading orthopaedic specialists across the country recommended for anyone who spends endless hours hunched over a desk. Her enthusiasm warmed my heart then, but now even the finest German ergonomic design offers me no relief. Across from me, curled into a tight ball, sits Imogenher stubborn spirit a mirror of my own youthful vigor.
She sits with her arms tightly crossed over her chest, as if trying to shield herself from my words. Her foot taps a nervous, staccato rhythm on the parquet, reminding me painfully of my own steelglint gaze and the same relentless tension that once defined my face. The air in the office grows heavy, as dense as lead.
Listen, I say softly, breaking the silence, your judgmental stare wont change my decision. I cant approve of your choice. Working as a doctor in a remote village isnt the path for you.
Youre just refusing to hear me, she exhales, hurt ringing in her voice. Were speaking different languages, were always on opposite banks.
I rub my face with a sigh.
Good luck with that eternal standoff! Speaking of classics, do you remember how Bazarov met his endtragic blood poisoning from a careless operation? And now you criticize me for not wishing that fate upon you?
Imogen simply glances up at the ceiling, a dramatic gesture that tells me she finds my argument unconvincing.
I think, with a pang, how alike we areoutside and inside, that unbreakable will. As a child, little Imogen would clamp her lips together and stare from beneath her brow whenever she wanted something, never willing to back down.
I blame only myself for that. After the dreadful day we lost Ireneshe was only fivegrief blinded me, and I tried to compensate for the loss with an endless, allconsuming love. I pampered Imogen, yet luckily it didnt make her spoiled or careless. She grew thoughtful, intelligent, and fiercely determined. Still, her latest decision robs me of peace, poisoning each day. Instead of taking over the family enterprise, she chose the ordinary life of a physician.
Our family business, founded by my father, has always been tied to medicinewe produce highprecision equipment for hospitals and clinics, and recently opened a chain of successful aestheticmedicine centres. Yet Imogen, after swearing the Hippocratic Oath, declared she has no intention of sculpting noses or tightening faces for those who can pay. Her calling is genuine help, the thing she deems important.
You refuse to see the obvious, I try again. Its easy to talk about lofty purpose when you have a life of luxury behind youtop universities, boundless freedom. Medicine is hard labour that few truly appreciate.
Her nostrils flare with indignation.
First you make everything seem like I have a choice, and now you reproach me for actually having one? Im not heading off to a backwater with no connection or civilisation! Ill be sent to a regular district hospital!
And if that hospital turns out to be in a remote nook, hundreds of miles from everything? My voice rises, barely holding back a laugh.
Imogen sighs, surveys the office, and her eyes linger on the blackandwhite portrait of Steve Jobs that hangs on the wall. She then turns sharply to me.
What did Steve Jobs say when he realised his time was up?
What exactly? I ask, rubbing my temples.
He once noted that with age comes a simple realisation: a £30 watch tells the same time as a £300,000 chronometer. It doesnt matter which car you drivethe road is the same for everyone. Whether youre cramped in a tiny flat or lounging in a manor, you can feel utterly alone.
And what does that have to do with us? she asks.
That people live everywherebig city or distant village. I want to be where my work can truly make a difference! Her voice trembles with earnest passion. Do you think someone who arrives at a hospital in a battered car doesnt deserve quality care?
Im only trying to protect you, Imogen! I snap. Let those without options bear that burden! I raised you for a different life!
But this is my life, and only I can decide how to live it! she declares, standing abruptly. Ill go wherever Im sent. Thats final.
She leaves the room without looking back. I watch her go, my head falling onto my hands. My daughter stubbornly refuses to see the obvious: in this world, social standing, birth, and connections matter far more than she believes. Born into plenty, she now wishes to renounce all its comforts.
My gaze lands on a silverframed photograph: little Imogen in a bright yellow dress, laughing carefree.
If she ever spent a night in a real backwater, shed understand how mistaken she is I mutter.
In that instant a new, lightningquick thought strikes me. I grab my phone and dial without hesitation.
David, hi. How are things?
Were getting along, mate. Much of it thanks to your support.
Listen, Ive got a question. Do you still have influence over the placement of medical graduates? My daughter just got her degreeshes burning to save lives.
No problem! David replies. Where are you thinking of putting her? A London hospital? Or perhaps our research centre?
Give her a village, I answer firmly. The most remote one you can find on a map.
A brief silence follows. Then David chuckles, Youre joking, Tom? Be seriouswhere are we sending Imogen?
Im dead serious, I say, my tone unshakable. Send her to a village.
That short conversation set in motion the chain of events that would reshape several lives.
When I first decided to send Imogen to a remote hamlet, I sincerely hoped the harsh reality would strip away her rosecoloured glasses. I was convinced that once she knew her future workplace, she wouldnt even start packing. Yet Imogen, determined to prove me wrong, displayed remarkable resilience. She soon found herself heading for the tiny village of Cranford, where a modest outpatient clinic awaited her.
The drive to that forgotten corner took nearly a whole day. I watched the countryside roll pastendless fields, dark woodsand halfjoked that a bear might burst from the thicket at any moment, as if the village name were a warning.
A modest brick house with a steep roof was prepared for the young doctor, standing cheekbyjowl with an older, dilapidated wooden cottage whose windows were boarded up. The latter looked so abandoned that a single gust of wind seemed capable of tearing it in half.
At first Imogen was thrilled. The air felt fresher, crystalclear, like spring water. But difficulties arrived swiftly.
The locals eyed the newcomer with open suspicion. Whispers spread that a doctor from the city could singlehandedly sustain half the region. No one understood why a polished city girl would come to their backwater. They tested her, probing her resolve.
Imogen, however, threw herself into the work. She treated everyone without distinctionremoving splinters, stitching childrens knees, listening patiently to elderly womens complaints about joints and blood pressure.
A month passed, and she was accepted. She became one of them. Then a strange problem emerged.
She stopped sleeping. Each night she heard odd noises: soft footsteps, a long creak, a distant, eerie dog howl. She rose with a lantern, wandering the dark house, finding no one. Her regular patient, old Mrs. Gresham, shook her head at Imogens gaunt appearance.
Darling, youre caring for us, yet you look pale as a ghost, the old woman muttered. Your face is ashen, no colour in it!
Imogen forced a smile. Thank you, Mrs. Gresham. Its just the nightsomething keeps me awake. It feels a bit scary in the house.
The old woman narrowed her eyes. You live next to the cursed housethose boarded windows. It belonged to the former fieldsheriff. He died after his wife vanished in the woods. He took his own life, and they say his spirit still roams, unable to find peace.
Imogen didnt believe such tales, but the footsteps she heard were unmistakable.
One evening, after a hard days work, she prepared dinner and was about to retire when a long, hollow creak echoed through the wall.
Her breath caught. It wasnt her houseit sounded like the neighbours. She drew the curtain aside and glimpsed a fleeting shadow between the timbers.
Silence fell, then a sudden thump, a muffled scream.
I mustnt go there at night, she whispered.
The next morning, with the sun banishing the nights fears, she gathered courage and entered the boarded cottage.
Inside lay stale air and a scent of mould. Her torch revealed overturned furniture, a broken chair, a table. Nothing seemed unusual until she noticed fresh footprints in dust, small bone fragments, and cloth stained with dark patches reminiscent of blood.
She whispered, Enough for today, and turned to leave, when again the long creak sounded, followed by rapid, staccato tapslike tiny barefoot feet scurrying across the floor.
Her imagination painted the ghost of the former fieldsheriff hurrying to meet an unwelcome visitor. She spun around, ready to flee, when a sudden, resonant crack under her foot sent her sprawling onto the cold floor. Her phone, lantern still on, slipped from her grasp, its screen flashing out as it slammed against a board. A sharp pain shot through her ankle.
She lay there, tears mixing with frustration. Whos there? she croaked, voice trembling.
A soft voice responded, almost a whimper.
Help? it asked.
Through a thin beam of light seeping through the boarded windows, a small figure emergeda gaunt boy, perhaps eight or nine, dressed in tattered, dirty clothes. His hair was light, tangled, spiderwebbed with dust, and his eyes, a shade of hazel, stared at her with wary curiosity.
Are you hurt? he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
She stifled a gasp. What are you doing here?
I live, he said simply, a faint challenge in his tone.
What? Alone? Imogen asked, eyes widening.
The boy shrugged. I used to live with my mum in the next village. Two years ago she fell seriously ill and they took me to an orphanage. Its not far.
He gestured toward the woods. I can help you.
Seeing his leg wrapped in grimy rags, she asked, Whats wrong with your leg?
He sighed. I tried to catch a fish, slipped on a sharp stone, cut myself. Ive barely walked for two days.
Imogens own fears melted away. Ignoring her throbbing ankle, she helped the boywhom she called Steadyinside, cleaned his wound, bandaged it, and gave him a warm coat she found in a cupboard. While he ate a simple stew she prepared, she asked why he had run away from the orphanage.
He sobbed, eyes fixed on the bowl. They called me the problem. They said I was a bad child. I didnt do anything wrong. My brothers blamed me for breaking things. Then they sent me back. Now I hide here, stealing food, avoiding everyone. The house is cursed; no one dares enter.
Her heart clenched at his misery.
How long have you been alone? she asked gently.
Maybe weeks maybe months, he whispered. During the day I stay hidden; at night I scavenge for fruit, eggs, whatever I can find. Nobody comes near that house.
She felt lost, unsure what to do. Yet the boys pleading look pushed her to act.
Will you stay with me? she asked, voice shaking.
He nodded, tears spilling. Please dont send me back.
She placed a reassuring hand on his head. I wont. Youll stay here.
Days later, I was driving the rough country road, fields and woods flanking the windows, when the news that Imogen had vanished from my radar finally sank in. A week passed with no word, and I could not bear the silence any longer. I drove to Cranford myself, halfhoping shed simply changed her mind.
In the village shop, the shopkeeper smiled. Looking for Imogen? She lives in the fifth house, the blueroofed one, with her brother.
My brother? I asked, puzzled.
Yes, with Steady, she replied, handing me a basket of scones and jam. Give her my regardsmy back feels better after the jam.
I thanked her, confused. Which brother?
The one with Steady, she repeated, turning away.
I followed the directions, found a young boy gathering berries under a hawthorn bush, and called out, Imogen! Where have you been?
She appeared, warm, unbothered, and invited me in for tea. She explained everythinghow she had taken Steady in as a younger brother, how the boy was a good, hardworking lad.
Its illegal, I protested, shaking my head. Youre supposed to report him to the authorities!
If you do that, Father, Ill adopt him myself, she replied firmly. I found out the orphanage never noticed his disappearance.
But you cant just take in every child in need!
Why not? If I can help, I will.
I wanted to leave, but my 4×4 sputtered and died, forcing me to stay. Those forced days became a turning point. I saw a different lifesimple, honest, sincere. Steady once took me fishing; I realised I hadnt held a rod in thirty years, though it used to be my favourite pastime.
The locals repaired my vehicle, yet I no longer felt the urge to drive away.
I lingered another day, then another, and another.
Eventually I filed the paperwork to become Steadys legal guardian.
Because theres nobody else to go fishing with me, I muttered, as Steady hugged me for the first time and called me Dad.
Imogen, watching us, quietly wiped away a tear of joy.
Years have passed. Steady grew, earned a brilliant education, and joined the family business, becoming a reliable pillar. Imogen rose to become chief consultant of a major hospital, achieving everything through hard work. Yet they still return to Cranford, together, time and again. In that quiet village of fields and kind hearts, they discovered something money cant buy: genuine peace, deep happiness, and the warmth of family.
Every evening, perched on the porch of our little blueroofed cottage, we watch the sun set, knowing the greatest treasure isnt wealth, but the people beside us and the chance to give love to those who need it most.
