The sun rose gently over the city, casting golden lines across the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sophia's apartment.
The curtains—sheer and pale—swayed slightly with the morning breeze as the day slipped quietly into the room.
Her alarm didn't ring.
It never had to.
Sophia's eyes opened precisely at six.
No groaning. No hesitation. Just a soft breath as she shifted beneath the cool sheets, sitting up slowly.
Her feet met the floor with the same practiced elegance she carried through every room.
She moved like someone who never wasted energy on indecision.
Moments later, the soft murmur of water began to hum through the walls as she stepped into the bathroom, her silk robe tied loosely at her waist.
Steam gathered in the mirror while she washed her face, her motions smooth, focused.
Every step of her routine was deliberate—skincare applied in delicate layers, hair brushed back into a low bun, not a strand out of place.
In the kitchen, she brewed her usual black coffee. No cream. No sugar. Just heat and bitterness to wake the edges of her mind.
She leaned against the counter as it brewed, glancing through her phone—not for messages, but to scan the hospital's early reports.
She made a mental note: board summary at ten, follow-up on the cardiology patient, and the orphan case still pending insurance.
No surprises.
She liked it that way.
Her closet was already laid out from the night before—tailored ivory blouse, high-waisted slate-grey trousers, a matching blazer. Simple. Refined. Effortless. She dressed with the kind of rhythm that came from routine, not vanity.
But there was a quiet pride in her appearance—a refusal to present anything less than control.
By 6:45, she was seated at the marble island, sipping her coffee as she glanced at her planner.
Classical music drifted softly through the apartment speakers—nothing too grand, just a low violin humming behind her thoughts.
Sophia never rushed.
There was no need.
Everything moved around her like she expected it to fall into place. And most days—it did.
By 7:15, she grabbed her keys, phone, and tablet, draped her long coat over her shoulders, and stepped out the door.
Her heels clicked softly on the polished hallway floors as she made her way to the elevator.
The city was awake now—but for Sophia, it was just beginning to catch up.
Sophia's car moved through the city like a whisper—smooth, pristine, untouched by the noise around it.
The morning rush was beginning to thicken, but she wove through it with familiar ease, her fingers resting lightly on the wheel, her eyes focused.
The playlist was subtle—instrumental piano, the kind of music that didn't ask for attention, just softened the silence.
She wasn't thinking about much.
Not on purpose.
But then, as she passed the familiar corner—the small café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore—her eyes flicked toward the storefront without meaning to.
Mr. Ben's.
The sign was plain. The windows fogged from the morning espresso machines.
She could just make out a figure moving inside—too far to see clearly, too quick to catch.
Her grip on the wheel stayed relaxed.
But her gaze lingered.
Jane.
The name drifted in like a thought she hadn't summoned. She hadn't expected to remember so easily. The messy ponytail. The wide, honest eyes. That half-smile that never quite held still.
It wasn't like her to remember strangers this vividly.
Except… Jane didn't feel like a stranger.
Sophia exhaled, her eyes returning to the road.
She hadn't stopped the car.
She didn't need coffee.
Not today.
And yet, the thought followed her like the tail of a perfume you catch only once but think about for hours.
A few more turns, and the café disappeared from her rearview mirror.
Still, for reasons she wouldn't admit aloud, her next exhale came out just a little slower.
The hospital entrance greeted her like it always did—automated doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, the scent of antiseptic and fresh linen wrapping around her like routine.
Sophia stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The staff nodded as she passed—nurses, interns, reception—all familiar faces offering quiet acknowledgment.
She offered a polite nod in return, not unkind, just… efficient.
Clara was already waiting near the nurses' station, holding a digital tablet against her chest like a shield.
"You're early," Clara said with a knowing glance.
"I'm never late," Sophia replied smoothly, removing her coat with one hand and passing it off without pause.
Clara smirked. "Fair. You've got your rounds first. Two new post-op cases in Ward 3, plus the cardiology patient from yesterday is requesting you personally."
Sophia raised a brow but didn't comment.
Clara added, tapping the screen, "Also, your father called—he scheduled a meeting with you at ten sharp.
Top floor. Probably about the upcoming foundation event or—well, you know how he is."
Sophia's expression didn't change, but a quiet sigh escaped through her nose.
"Noted," she said.
"You want me to stall him?" Clara offered with half a grin.
Sophia shook her head, already scanning the screen Clara handed her. "If I delay, he'll just call again. Let's not waste the effort."
Clara fell into step beside her as they moved down the hall. "And you have a lunch meeting tomorrow with Dr. Faye, remember? She's asking about collaborating on the pediatric surgical wing."
"I remember," Sophia said. "Push it to next week if necessary. Prioritize the OR case we postponed yesterday."
Clara gave a small nod, then eyed her curiously as they reached the elevator.
"You're quieter than usual this morning," she said.
Sophia pressed the button for the third floor. "Am I?"
Clara hummed. "Not in a bad way. Just… softer."
Sophia didn't reply. The elevator doors opened. She stepped in, her reflection catching her briefly in the chrome walls—calm, sharp, untouchable.
Still, even as she turned away, the thought from earlier returned.
Jane.
Just for a second.
Then the doors closed, and she was a doctor again.
The third-floor ward buzzed with quiet activity—nurses moving from room to room, monitors beeping steadily, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the cool air.
Sophia stepped in, coat folded neatly over her arm, stethoscope draped around her neck. Her presence, as always, straightened spines and hushed side conversations.
Clara followed beside her, keeping a few steps behind.
"First up—Mr. Rowley," Clara said, checking her tablet. "Post-op. Gallbladder. Surgery went well, but he's been complaining about discomfort. Vitals are stable."
Sophia stepped into the room, where a gray-haired man lay propped up in bed, flipping through the channels with visible frustration.
"Mr. Rowley," she greeted, voice steady. "How are we feeling this morning?"
The man looked up, mildly grumpy. "Like someone dug a hole in my side and left me here."
Sophia moved to his bedside, glancing at the IV line and monitors. "That's a fair summary. We removed your gallbladder, not your sense of humor."
He chuckled dryly. "You must be the boss they were talking about. You don't look old enough to be cutting people open."
"I age well," Sophia said, already pressing lightly around his incision site. "Pain here?"
He winced. "A bit. Mostly when I breathe in deep."
"Normal for the second day post-op. Your vitals look good. I'll adjust your pain management slightly and have you walking more today. If you behave, you'll be home by the weekend."
He raised a skeptical brow. "Behave? Me?"
Sophia smiled faintly, stepping back. "Surprise me."
Clara updated the chart as they exited.
"Next—room 312. The young woman with the spinal fusion. Still in recovery, still anxious."
They moved quickly through the corridor, each patient met with the same blend of warmth and precision.
Sophia never lingered more than necessary, yet every person she spoke to sat a little straighter afterward.
She didn't just examine bodies.
She carried authority that made people feel safer.
By the time they finished the ward, Clara was flipping through her schedule again.
"That's all for now," she said. "You've got fifteen minutes before your father expects you upstairs."
Sophia nodded. "Tell them I'll be on time."
"You always are," Clara replied, already turning to field a nurse's question.
Sophia lingered a moment by the window at the end of the corridor.
The city stretched beyond the glass—distant and busy, indifferent to the quiet lives unfolding inside these walls.
She took a slow breath.
Then turned toward the elevators, heels clicking.