CHAPTER 2: The Past Under Scrubs
CHAPTER 2: The Past Under Scrubs
“Adllidine…” the man repeated, voice breaking. “That’s not possible.”
The doctor’s hand hovered over the child’s IV line.
For the first time, her professional mask slipped.
“Sir,” she said carefully, “we need to stabilize your daughter immediately. Please step aside.”
But neither of them moved.
Recognition had already done what medicine could not pause.
“You said you were gone,” he whispered. “You disappeared after the accident…”
A flicker crossed her face.
Pain.
Then control.
“That conversation is not for now.”
She turned slightly toward the team.
“Prepare OR-3. We’re going in immediately.”
But the father stepped forward.
His voice rose.
“No—you don’t understand. I thought you were dead.”
That stopped her completely.
The monitors around them beeped louder, as if reacting to the tension in the air.
For a second, she looked at the child again.
Then back at him.
And something softer broke through her eyes.
“…She’s yours?”
He nodded, unable to speak.
The doctor inhaled sharply.
A silence stretched between them—heavy, fractured, unfinished.
Then she whispered:
May you like
“We don’t have time for the past.”
But her hands were shaking.
