The Doctor and the boy

Vernon

My whole life has been a quest for something more, an unsatisfied hunger for the unknown. Raised by a merchant, I thought I'd finally be satisfied. But then, fate had different plans, I stood helpless as he was ripped in two by a monstrous force beyond comprehension. It wasn't merely his death that broke me—it was the realization of how powerless I was in the face of death. In that moment of despair, I vowed never again to let this happen, never again would I stand idly by while those I cherish suffer. And so, I turned to learn the healing arts, hoping to mend the broken and shield the vulnerable. Being the best, I was respected by all, praised, and loved for my miracles Yet, even as my name was adorned by many, I was envied. They called me 'the weakest link,' whispering behind my back. But what they failed to see was that every life I saved was a testament to the depths of my sorrow, a futile attempt to fill the void left by a father's absence. And so, I move on forward, haunted by the ghosts of my past, with the burden of a promise I may never fulfill.

My immense sorrow drove me into the arms of alcohol—a futile attempt to drown out the echoes of my anguish. Night after endless night, I sought comfort in it, yet it offered nothing, no comfort from the relentless torment torturing my soul. Each night, I am haunted by the memory of my own powerlessness, a brutal reminder of my desperation and crushing loneliness. And so, with tears as my only companions, I surrender to the darkness sleep claims me, only to grant me a temporary escape from the relentless agony of my existence.

Today unfolded much like the countless others before it. I forced myself from slumber with a forced smile, knowing that soon I would be immersed in the familiar routine of tending to my patients. Yet, amidst this uniformity, there remained a small sign of hope—the prospect of indulging in a comforting breakfast at my cherished café.

As I went through the usual motions of my day, a sudden collision shattered the rhythm. A child, breathless and feverish, collided with me, clutching a stolen croissant from the café in his tiny hands. At that moment, amidst the chaos, something stirred within me—an unexpected surge of compassion and determination.

I reached out, seizing the child gently but firmly, and returned the stolen pastry to its rightful place. In his wide-eyed gaze, I glimpsed a reflection of innocence and vulnerability, reminding me of a younger version of myself.

As I watched the child, a whisper of hope stirred within my weary heart—perhaps the seed of a brighter tomorrow lies in this small act of kindness. 

As I prepared to depart, a dwarf clothed in luxurious silk. Though miniature, his presence was commanding, his gaze sharp and his manner determined. With a voice that carried authority, he hurried towards me. It was apparent from his frantic demeanor that he sought the child—a chilling realization dawned upon me as he disclosed his identity as a slave trader, claiming ownership of the boy. Enraged by the dwarf's revelation, I confronted him, demanding to purchase the child myself, the dwarf had no objection and happily gave away the child.

The scene stirred a sense of gratitude within me as it brought to mind, a bond developed almost a decade ago, one akin to that of a father and son. In reflecting on the past, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of thankfulness towards the merchant, whose fortunate intervention had pulled me back from the brink of insanity back at the slave market