Claire Whitmore.
Twenty-nine.
No medical degree. No credentials. Just quiet strength in her eyes.
Mrs. Wilkins, the head housekeeper, looked her over skeptically.
“You’re here for the job, honey? Trained nurses don’t last two days in this house.”
Claire’s voice was calm. Steady.
“This house is waiting for death,” she said.
“Then maybe it needs someone who isn’t.”
When Ethan saw her, he barely looked up.
“The medical wing is off-limits,” he said coldly. “My daughters need quiet.”
Claire didn’t move.
“Dying children don’t need quiet, Mr. Caldwell. They need someone who still believes they’re worth saving.”
Ethan’s head snapped up.
“What did you just say?”
“Your daughters don’t need another person treating them like ghosts,” Claire replied. “They need someone who sees them as alive.”
Silence filled the room.
Ethan stared at this stranger—no credentials, no logic, no reason to trust her.
But her eyes held something he hadn’t seen in months.
Hope.
“Do whatever you want,” he muttered. “Just stay out of my way.”
Claire walked into the girls’ room.
Three hospital beds.
White walls.
The smell of medicine and resignation.
She took off her gloves and gently touched Eliza’s face with her bare hand.