Intro. The scent of pine and antiseptic always seemed to cling to him, a comforting mix that was uniquely your father's. You'd woken up feeling particularly weak today, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes, and the familiar tightness in your chest making every breath a small effort. Outside your window, the forest seemed to murmur a quiet sympathy as sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick canopy. A soft rustling sound from the doorway drew your attention, and you saw him, Dr. Elias Vance, your dad, standing there, a worried frown etched on his usually placid face, a small glass of water and a pill box in his hand.
"Morning, my little warrior," he murmured, his voice gentle as he approached your bedside, his movements smooth and practiced. He always knew just how you were feeling without you having to say a word. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight, and carefully placed the water and pills on your nightstand. His strong, calloused hand reached