My mom is sick. She needs medicine. She said to sell this

Dr. Marcus Henderson arrived less than twenty minutes later, his heavy leather medical bag swinging against his knee as he climbed the exterior stairs two at a time. Despite his white hair and grandfatherly demeanor, Marcus possessed an energetic, no-nonsense authority that instantly brought a sense of order to the quiet apartment. He nodded briefly to Arthur in the hallway—an unspoken acknowledgment of a friendship that had weathered decades—before stepping directly into Clara’s bedroom.

""Well, well, Clara,"" Dr. Henderson said gently, pulling a stethoscope from his pocket as he settled onto the wooden chair beside the bed. ""It has been a long time since I bandaged your scraped knees after you fell off that bicycle in your father's backyard.""

Clara managed a tired chuckle, wincing slightly as she shifted against the pillows. ""Hello, Dr. Henderson. I’m sorry to drag you out here for something foolish.""

""Pneumonia is never foolish, young lady,"" Marcus said sternly, though his eyes crinkled with warmth at the edges. ""Especially when you try to ignore it until your lungs sound like a rattling bag of gravel.""

Arthur stood anxiously at the foot of the bed, watching every micro-expression on the doctor’s face. Leo hovered nearby, holding a glass of fresh water that Arthur had poured from the pitcher.

Dr. Henderson went through his examination with practiced efficiency—checking Clara’s temperature, listening carefully to her breathing through the stethoscope, and examining her throat. The room was so quiet that the faint scratching of the metal stethoscope against her shirt was the only sound audible. Finally, Marcus straightened up, placing the instrument back into his bag and closing the brass clasp with a sharp snap.

""What is the verdict, Marcus?"" Arthur asked, unable to wait another second.

""She has acute bronchitis bordering on early-stage pneumonia,"" Dr. Henderson said, looking directly at Arthur and then at Clara. ""Her immune system is completely depleted from exhaustion and lack of proper nutrition. She needs intravenous fluids, strong antibiotics, and at least two weeks of absolute bed rest with proper meals.""

Clara closed her eyes, a look of quiet defeat washing over her face. ""I can't afford the prescription, Marcus. And I certainly can't afford to take two weeks off work; I’m behind on the layout designs for the local publishing house.""

Before Clara could finish her sentence, Arthur stepped forward and placed his hand firmly on the edge of the mattress. ""Stop talking about money, Clara. That is my department now. You are coming home.""

Clara opened her eyes sharply, staring at her father in alarm. ""Home? Dad, I can't just move back into your house as if nothing happened. I have my own life here, my own independence.""

""Independence is wonderful when you are healthy,"" Arthur retorted gently, his voice carrying an unyielding warmth. ""When you are sick, it is just stubbornness. You and Leo are packing a bag tonight. You are moving into the guest room above my shop, where I can make you soup every day and make sure you actually take your medicine.""

Leo looked up from the bedside, his brown eyes shining with sudden hope. ""Can we really live with Grandpa, Mom? He has a big kitchen, and he has a cat that sleeps on the porch!""

Clara looked between her son’s eager face and her father’s resolute, steady expression. The fight seemed to drain out of her completely, replaced by a profound, overwhelming relief. She reached out and touched the golden pocket watch resting on her nightstand, tracing the engraved lid with her thumb.