Doctor's Advice

Dr. Anton’s office was bathed in the soft, diffused light of a late afternoon sun, the kind that made the dust motes dancing in the air seem like tiny, golden sprites. The room itself was a sanctuary of calm, smelling faintly of antiseptic and something else, something warm and herbal that Elesky couldn’t quite place. It was a scent that spoke of healing, of quiet competence, and it settled a nervous flutter deep in her stomach. Markov’s hand was a steady anchor in hers, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her skin, a silent reassurance that always managed to chase away the jitters.

They sat opposite Dr. Anton, a man whose kind eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a smile he’d offered freely when they’d first arrived, his face alight with genuine pleasure at their shared news. He’d known Markov since childhood, a fact that lent an extra layer of comfort to the sterile environment. Now, he held a small sheaf of papers, his gaze thoughtful as he scanned them.

“Everything looks perfectly healthy, Elesky,” he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, warm and full of understanding. “Your body is adapting beautifully to this new… journey. It’s quite remarkable, really.”