The following morning, sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of Clara’s modest home. She sat at her son Lucas’s bedside, carefully adding a single drop from Dr. Verin’s vial into a cup of water, watching as the liquid swirled, shimmering faintly before dissolving. Lucas drank it with ease, his eyes open and clearer than they had been in days, though a shadow of fatigue still lingered over him.
As Clara went about her morning routine, a soft knock came at the door. She opened it to find old Mr. Tavish, the village’s historian and storyteller, leaning on his cane, his eyes alight with curiosity.
“Clara, I heard the phantom doctor was here last night,” Tavish said, his voice barely more than a whisper. His gaze drifted past her, as if expecting to see the man himself inside.
Clara nodded and motioned for him to enter. “Yes, Mr. Tavish. He came to help Lucas. I don’t know where he came from, but he did more in one night than anyone else could.”
Tavish’s gaze fell on Lucas, who lay resting peacefully, color returning to his cheeks. “They say these phantom doctors wander from town to town, speaking languages we no longer know. Some call them miracle workers… others say they meddle in things best left untouched.”
Clara’s heart skipped a beat, her mind swirling with Tavish’s words. “But he helped Lucas,” she whispered, more to herself. “He told me the illness was no ordinary one and that he’d return with a cure.”
Tavish watched her, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution. “Perhaps he will,” he said, glancing toward the edge of the village. “Or perhaps he has already gone, like mist at dawn. These men are rarely bound by the ordinary rules of our world.”
As the day wore on, Clara tried to push Tavish’s words from her mind. She focused on her son, feeling a new lightness with each passing hour as he grew a little stronger, a little brighter. But by the time dusk settled over the village, her unease had crept back. She went to her door, staring out at the forest line, hoping to catch a glimpse of the doctor.
Just as she was about to close her door, she saw a figure standing in the fading light, half-shrouded in shadows. Her heart leaped—it was him.
Dr. Verin stepped forward, his silhouette tall and solemn against the dying light. Clara rushed out to meet him, and he held up a hand to stop her, his expression calm and steady.
“I have completed the remedy,” he said quietly, his voice blending with the murmurs of the trees. “But it will not be a cure that works overnight. The boy’s affliction runs deep, and the remedy must be taken with care.”
He pulled a small bundle wrapped in dark cloth from his bag and handed it to her with a grave expression. “This is a tonic infused with rare herbs and ancient magic. Give him a spoonful each morning at dawn. It will draw out the remnants of the curse from his body.”
Clara clutched the bundle to her chest, her eyes brimming with relief and hope. “How long will it take for him to recover fully?”
Dr. Verin looked toward the horizon, his face unreadable. “Healing is a journey, not a moment. If you follow these instructions, he will recover in time. The darkness within him is strong but not insurmountable.”
As he turned to leave, she called out, her voice laced with desperation. “Will we ever see you again?”
Dr. Verin paused, glancing back with a faint, mysterious smile. “Perhaps, if fate wills it. When the need is great, the shadows often reveal those who walk within them.”
Before she could say another word, he melted into the twilight, his figure fading like mist as he disappeared into the woods. Clara held the tonic close, her heart swelling with both hope and a strange sense of finality as she watched him vanish.