Arthur Whitmore sank back into the deep leather armchair that dominated his study. It was no ordinary piece of furniture; it had been the most prized gift his only daughter, Blythe, had presented him two years earlier. She had come in with eyes alight, insisting that the chair was the model recommended by every leading orthopaedic specialist in the country for those who spent countless hours at a desk. Her earnestness had touched his heart. Now, however, even the finest German engineering could not coax a sigh of relief from him, for opposite him, curled into a tight ball, sat Blytheher mirror image, bright and unyielding, a living echo of his own youthful vigor.
Blythe clasped her hands over her chest, as if trying to shield herself from his words. Her foot tapped a nervous, staccato rhythm against the parquet. In that moment she resembled a younger Arthursteelbright gaze, stubborn set of features. The air in the room grew heavy, as if saturated with lead.
Listen, his voice cut through the hush, your disapproving stare wont change my mind. I cant approve your choice. Working as a doctor in a backwater village isnt the road for you.
You simply wont hear me, she exhaled, the edge of hurt flashing in her tone. Its as if were speaking different languages, standing on opposite banks.
Arthur ran a hand over his face, grief lining his features.
A splendid excuse for perpetual rivalry! If we are to quote the classics, recall how Bazarov met his endtragic blood poisoning from a careless operation. And now you scold me for not wishing that fate upon you?
Blythe turned her gaze to the ceiling, deliberately showing how unconvincing his argument seemed to her.
Arthur felt a painful pang at how alike they were, not just externally but in that unbreakable core of will. As a child, little Blythe would clench her lips and stare from beneath her brow whenever she wanted something, never willing to give up.
He blamed only himself for the darkness that followed the day they lost Iris when Blythe was five. Blinded by grief, he tried to drown the loss in boundless, allconsuming love. He pampered her, yet she grew sensible, intelligent and fiercely determined rather than spoiled. Still, her final decisionrejecting the family firm to become an ordinary physiciangnawed at him day by day.
The family enterprise, founded by his grandfather, manufactured precision medical equipment for hospitals and had recently opened a chain of upscale aesthetic clinics. But Blythe, after reciting the Hippocratic Oath, declared shed not be reshaping noses for those who could pay. Her calling was true help, the kind she deemed essential.
You refuse to see the obvious, Arthur tried again. Its easy to preach lofty purpose when youre cushioned by wealth, elite universities and unlimited freedom. Medicine is hard labour, rarely honoured properly.
Blythes nostrils flared with indignation.
First you orchestrate everything so I have a choice, and now you chastise me for having one? Im not heading to a remote hamlet without connection or civilisation! Ill be placed in a regular district hospital!
And if that hospital turns out to be in a bearpit, hundreds of miles from everything? Arthurs voice rose, his restraint slipping.
Blythe breathed out slowly, scanning the study. Her eyes lingered on portraits of eminent figures that lined the walls, pausing on the blackandwhite image of Steve Jobs. She turned sharply to her father.
Do you know what Jobs said when he realised his time was up?
What did he say? Arthur asked, weary.
He mused 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 drive; the road is the same for all. You can feel unbearably lonely in a cramped flat or a palatial manor, she recited briskly.
And where are you going with that? he demanded.
To the idea that people live everywherebig cities and distant villages alike. I want to be where my work can truly change something! Do you think a man who arrives at a hospital in an old car doesnt deserve quality care?
I’m only trying to protect you, Blythe! Arthurs voice cracked. Let those without choice bear the burden! I raised you for a different life!
But this is my life, and only I can decide how to live it! Blythe snapped to her feet. Ill go wherever Im sent. Thats final.
She lifted her chin, turned, and fled the office without looking back. Arthur watched helplessly, his head sinking into his hands. His daughter stubbornly refused to see the obvious: in this world, social standing, birth and connections mattered far more than she realised. Born into comfort, she now seemed determined to renounce every advantage.
His gaze fell on a silverframed photograph: a young Blythe in a bright yellow dress, laughing carefree.
If she ever spent a night in true isolation, shed understand how wrong she is he whispered.
In that instant a new, lightningquick thought struck him. He grabbed the phone and, without hesitation, dialled.
David, hello. Hows it going?
Going well, his old university mate replied cheerfully. A lot thanks to your support.
Listen, a question. Do you still have influence over the placement of medical graduates? My daughter just finished her degreeshes eager to save the world.
No problem! David said, brightening. Where do you want her? A capital hospital? Or perhaps our research centre?
Anywhere but the city, Arthur said firmly. The most remote spot you can find on a map.
A brief silence settled. Then David chuckled softly.
Joking, Tom? Come on, be seriouswhere are we sending Blythe?
Im serious as ever, Davids tone steadied. Send her to a village.
That phone call sparked a story that would twist several lives.
When Arthur decided to dispatch his daughter to a backwater village, he hoped the harsh reality would shatter her rosecoloured glasses. He believed that once she learned where she would work, she wouldnt even start packing. But Blythe, determined to prove him wrong, held fast. She soon found herself heading for the hamlet of Hollowford, where a modest clinic awaited.
The journey to that forgotten corner claimed almost an entire day. She watched fields and dark woods slip past the window, halfjoking that a bear might burst from the thicketan apt reflection of the villages name.
A small, sturdy brick house with a steep roof was prepared for her, standing beside an older, shabby timber cottage with windows boarded up tight. The latter looked so weatherworn that a single gust might split it in two.
At first Blythe was exhilarated. The air seemed fresher, crystalclear, as if drawn from a spring. But difficulties soon surfaced.
The locals greeted the new doctor with thinly veiled suspicion. Whispers spread that a single practitioner could hold a whole district together. No one understood why a polished city lady would come to their wilderness. They tested her, waiting for a stumble.
Yet Blythe threw herself into the work, treating every patient with equal carepulling splinters from carpenters fingers, stitching childrens bruised knees, listening patiently to old womens complaints about pressure and joints.
A month later, the village accepted her. She became one of them. Then the strange, inexplicable problem began.
Blythe stopped sleeping. Each night she heard faint footsteps, a long creak, distant canine howls. She rose with a lantern, wandering the house, finding no one. A regular patient, old Mrs. Glover, shook her head at the sight of Blythes pale face.
Darling, you care for us, yet you look like a ghost, the woman muttered. Your complexion is wan, no colour at all!
Blythe smiled weakly. Thank you, Mrs. Glover. Its just the night, something keeps me awake. It feels a bit eerie here.
Mrs. Glovers eyes narrowed. Youre near the condemned house, the one with boarded windows. It belonged to the former village doctor. He once lived there, but after his wife vanished in the woods, he fell into despair, drank himself into oblivion, and…
What happened?
The doctor eventually killed his own wife in a quarrel and then himself. They say his spirit still roams, unsettled, the old woman whispered.
Blythe dismissed it as folklore, yet the steps she heard grew clearer.
One evening, after a hard day, she prepared her supper, ready to rest, when a long, resonant squeak echoed from the wall opposite. Her breath caught. It wasnt her houseit was the neighbours. She pulled the curtain aside and saw a fleeting shadow flicker between the boards.
Silence fell, then a sudden thud, a muffled cry.
I wont go there at night, she whispered to herself.
Morning light chased the fear away. Gathering courage, Blythe pushed open the boarded door of the condemned cottage.
Inside lay stale air and moulds perfume. Her flashlight revealed overturned furniture, a broken bench, a table. Nothing out of the ordinary, yet as she moved deeper, she noted signs of recent presencescattered dust, gnawed fragments, a splatter of dark stains resembling dried blood.
I think thats enough for now, she murmured, turning to leave.
A long, eerie creak sounded again, followed by a rapid patter, as if tiny bare feet scurried across the floor. Her imagination painted the ghost of the former doctor hurrying to confront an unwelcome visitor.
She spun, ready to flee, when a sudden, highpitched squeak from above sent her stumbling over a tipped chair. She fell hard onto the cold floor, her phone slipping from her hand, its screen flashing out as it crashed into a corner. Pain shot up her ankle; tears streamed down her cheeks as she clutched the throbbing joint.
A soft voice floated through the gloom. Can I help?
Blythe froze, heart thudding like a drum. She stared into the darkness, then, gathering what remained of her strength, crawled backward.
Who? she whispered, voice trembling.
A thin beam of light slipped through a cracked pane, and a small figure emergeda boy, gaunt, perhaps eight or ten, dressed in tattered clothes, hair a tangled mess of strawcoloured strands, eyes a wary amber.
Are you hurt? he asked, stepping forward cautiously.
Blythe stared, astonished by his sudden bravery.
What are you doing here? she asked, eyes never leaving his.
I live, he answered quietly, a faint challenge in his tone.
Alone? she probed.
He shrugged. My mum was ill, taken to a home two years ago. I ran away. The old doctors house is the only shelter left.
He lifted a bandaged foot, the rag soaked with dark stains.
What happened to it? Blythe asked gently.
I tried to catch a fish, slipped on a sharp stone, cut it. Been limping for days, he explained.
All her fear melted. She hauled herself up, limping herself, and carried the boy into her own cottage. She set him on a chair, fetched a firstaid kit, cleaned the wound, and wrapped it with fresh cloth. The boy, whose name was Sam, watched her work with a mix of gratitude and suspicion.
Why did you run from the home? Blythe asked as she bandaged him.
Everyone called me a problem child. They said I broke things, that I was bad. They sent me back, like a broken toy. I didnt belong, Sam whispered, eyes glistening.
Blythes heart ached. The cruelty he described was unbearable.
How long have you been here? she asked.
Dont knowmaybe weeks. I hide during the day, sneak out at night for food. No one dares to enter that house. I steal eggs, berries, he replied, his voice low.
His words hung heavy in the room. Blythe felt lost, unsure what to do next, but Sams pleading gaze seemed to ask for a chance.
You wont be sent back, will you? he asked, voice trembling.
No, she promised, gently laying a hand on his head. Ill keep you safe.
Arthur, driving the cracked country lane, watched fields and forests roll by, his mind replaying the last GPS ping of Blythes location. Weeks passed with no word. He finally decided to travel himself, hoping his daughter might reconsider. In his mind, countless worstcase scenarios swirled, but reality proved stranger.
At the village shop he asked, Are you looking for Blythe?
The shopkeeper, a stout woman with a bright smile, pointed down a lane. She lives in the fifth house with the blue roof, with her little brother.
Which brother? Arthur asked, confused.
The one named Sam! she shouted over her shoulder as she handed him a parcel of scones and jam. My mother says the jam cured her back!
Arthur stared, bewildered. He followed the direction, found Sam gathering blackberries beneath a hawthorn bush.
Blythe! he called, breathless. When did you become my son?
Blythe turned, warm and unburdened, and ushered him inside. Over tea she recounted everything.
To avoid questions, I told everyone Sam is my younger brother, she explained, glancing at Sam, who was now arranging berries into a tin for jam.
Thats illegal! Arthur exclaimed. You should inform the authorities!
If you do, Ill adopt him myself, Blythe retorted stubbornly. Ive been looking into that childrens homeno one even noticed he was missing!
You cant just take in every orphan! Arthur protested.
Why not? If I can help, I will, she said.
Frustrated, Arthur tried to leave, but his 4×4 sputtered and died, forcing him to stay. Those forced days became a turning point. He discovered a simple, honest life. Sam took him fishing one dawn, reminding Arthur of a hobby hed abandoned thirty years ago.
The village mechanics repaired the vehicle, but Arthur no longer felt the urge to return to the city. He lingered, day after day, and eventually filed the paperwork to become Sams legal guardian.
Because theres no one else to go fishing with, he muttered as Sam wrapped his arms around him, calling him dad.
Blythe, watching them, brushed away a tear of quiet joy.
Years slipped by. Sam earned a brilliant education and entered the family business, becoming a steadfast pillar. Blythe rose to chief medical officer of a major hospital, achieving success through her own hard work. Yet they returned to Hollowford time and again, together, because in that quiet valley of fields and kind hearts they discovered a treasure no amount of money could buy: genuine peace, deep joy, and the warmth of family.
Each evening, perched on the porch of their old blueroofed cottage, they watched the sun dip below the horizon, knowing the greatest wealth lay not in pounds or pence, but in the people beside them and the love they could share.
