Shirley
Dr. Rourke’s office always smelled faintly of old books and disinfectant. It was the kind of place where time seemed to slow down, where secrets were unwrapped in whispers instead of shouts. I hesitated at the door, my palm damp against the wood. He’d asked me to come by urgently after hours, his tone clipped, almost anxious.
I pushed the door open.
“Dr. Rourke?” My voice wavered more than I liked.
He sat at his desk, glasses low on his nose, several files spread open before him. His usual calm, methodical air was there, but underneath it… I caught the tremor in his hand as he adjusted a stack of papers.
“Shirley,” he said quietly, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Please. Sit.”
The way he said it made my stomach tighten. I obeyed, lowering myself into the chair, feel
