“It’s strange how in the end it’s three little strangers who make me question everything,” he murmured to himself, gazing out the wide window at the night. “What a waste my life has been.” The days that followed created a surprisingly comfortable routine in the mansion. The triplets, though still wary, began to adjust to their new surroundings. The social worker made her daily visits, always suspicious, but unable to deny that the girls were being well cared for. Marco had hired private tutors to begin helping them catch up on the school time they had missed during their father’s illness.
The mansion, once a monument to elegant solitude, was gradually coming to life with children’s books, colorful drawings, and the occasional sound of laughter. “I never thought I’d see this house so colorful,” the housekeeper remarked as she put away drawings the girls had made. The master seemed different too, more present despite everything. Marco, however, was getting worse with each passing day. He tried to hide his symptoms, taking pain medication when the girls weren’t around, forcing himself to eat even when he had no appetite, and resting whenever he could to conserve energy for the time he spent with them.
But it was impossible to completely hide the reality of his condition. On the morning of the fifth day, during breakfast, a particularly sharp wave of pain struck him as he poured juice for Iris. The glass slipped from his suddenly weak fingers, shattering on the floor and splattering orange juice across the pristine ground. “Excuse me,” he said, gripping the edge of the table as he closed his eyes against the stabbing pain. “I’m feeling a bit clumsy today.” The triplets exchanged concerned glances.
They knew that expression well, the sudden pallor, the cold sweat on his forehead. They had seen the same signs in their father during his last days. While the housekeeper quickly cleaned up the mess, the girls watched Marco with growing intensity. They were trembling slightly. Isabel noticed how he had barely touched his own breakfast. And Iris saw the shadow of pain that crossed his face when he thought no one was watching. “Why don’t you rest a little after breakfast?” Laya suggested gently, using the same tone she used with their father.
We can read by ourselves this morning. After breakfast, when Marco finally succumbed to exhaustion and retired to his room, the triplets gathered in the wide hallway, conversing in urgent whispers. The fear of losing someone else so quickly was palpable between them. There was a fierce determination in their identical eyes, a refusal to passively accept another cruel blow from fate. Iris drew her sisters closer, her normally gentle expression now intense, with a sudden thought. “Remember how Dad always said he knew a doctor who treated a lot of cancer?” she asked, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
He said he was the best in the world. The three of them walked silently down the hallway, past expensive works of art and antiques whose value they didn’t fully grasp. The mansion, though they’d only been there a few days, was already beginning to feel familiar in its grandeur. They found a half-open door leading to Marco’s private study, a sanctuary of dark wood and leather, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and an imposing computer on an antique desk. Iris pointed toward the computer, her eyes shining with renewed hope.
“Yes, it’s true, Dad was talking about a special doctor,” she remarked suddenly, moving toward the machine. “He said he was the best doctor in the country.” Isabel, who had always been the most intellectual of the three, immediately grasped the direction of her sister’s thoughts. Her eyes lit up with recognition and memory. She approached the computer, fascinated by the technology she had rarely had access to in her previous life. The screen was in standby mode, subtly displaying Marco’s company logo.
“That’s right,” Isabel exclaimed, animated for the first time in days. He always said that if we ever got really sick, we should see a doctor. Laya joined them, completing the shared memory that flowed between the three of them like an electric current of hope. Her eyes shone with the same recognition, the same determination. To outside observers, it was almost supernatural how they finished each other’s thoughts, as if they shared not only identical appearances but also some deep mental connection.
“Cruz,” Laya finished, the memory flashing into her mind. His name was Dr. Cruz. Dad said he saved people no one else could. The three of them exchanged glances, a new mission crystallizing between them. Isabel, the most technically inclined, approached the computer with reverent caution. To her surprise and relief, the system wasn’t locked. Perhaps Marco had left it that way deliberately, or perhaps he was simply unaccustomed to protecting himself within his own home.
With hesitant fingers, Isabel moved the mouse, watching the screen come to life. “Let’s investigate,” Isabel decided, opening the browser with the confidence of someone who had watched adults do the same countless times. “We need to find that doctor before it’s too late.” The search was surprisingly easy. Just a few minutes of careful typing revealed several articles about Dr. Cruz, a renowned oncologist who had caused controversy in the medical community a few years earlier. The headlines ranged from praise to criticism, but the pattern was clear.
Pioneering doctor defies protocols to save patients. Award-winning oncologist fired for treating impoverished children. Dr. Cruz continues experimental treatments in community clinic. Isabel clicked on one of the most recent articles, and the three of them leaned in together to read. It said he was fired for using an unapproved treatment on a child who couldn’t afford it. Isabel read, her finger following the lines of text. But the child survived when everyone said it was impossible. The article’s details revealed that Dr. Cruz now worked in a modest clinic in the city’s suburbs, continuing his experimental treatments for terminal cancer cases that conventional hospitals had declared hopeless.
The article vaguely mentioned innovative approaches and unconventional protocols, without going into specifics. There was a photograph of the doctor, a middle-aged man with gentle but determined eyes, standing in front of a simple building that contrasted dramatically with the elite hospitals where he had previously worked. “It says here that he now works at a clinic in the southern part of the city,” Iris pointed out, her finger tapping the screen in the mentioned direction. “It’s not far from that hospital where Dad used to be.”
The girls carefully printed the article, waiting anxiously as the state-of-the-art printer in the corner of the desk produced a crisp copy. When they heard footsteps in the hallway, they quickly closed the browser and moved away from the computer, feigning innocence. Marco appeared in the doorway, visibly more rested after a few hours of sleep, but still with that underlying pallor that worried them so much. “What are you doing here?” he asked kindly, without accusation in his voice. “I thought you were in the library with the books we brought yesterday.”
Laya took the lead, as she always did in challenging situations. She approached Marco, the printed article in her hands, her expression a mixture of pleading and determination. The other two positioned themselves behind her, forming their usual triangle of mutual support, three versions of the same face confronting the man who, in such a short time, had become such an important figure in their lives. “Please,” Laya implored, extending the article toward Marco, her intense eyes fixed on his.
“I saw this doctor. Our father trusted him more than anyone.” Marco took the paper, surprised by the girl’s intensity. His eyes quickly scanned the article, his expression shifting from curiosity to skepticism. He knew the world of elite medicine well: the rigorous protocols, the necessary approvals, the risk management policies. Doctors like this Cruz were often seen as dangerous rebels, ready to risk lives in the name of their unproven theories. At the same time, he couldn’t deny the palpable hope in the triplets’ eyes, a hope he didn’t have the heart to crush, even knowing it was probably unfounded.
“This doctor was expelled from the medical community for questionable practices,” Marco explained gently, trying not to sound condescending. “Experimental treatments can be dangerous and often only prolong suffering.” The triplets stood firm, their eyes fixed on him, with an intensity that Marco found difficult to confront. There was in those gazes not only childlike pleading, but also a wisdom born of premature suffering. Isabel stepped forward, always the most rational of the three, always ready with logical arguments that prickled his conscience.
“What do you have to lose?” she asked simply. Her voice was calm and reasonable. “The other doctors have already said they can’t do anything. Why not try?” Marco had no answer for that impeccable logic. The best specialists had already diagnosed his case as terminal, a month at most, predominantly of increasing pain and deterioration. What did he really have to lose? He looked again at the article, at the photo of the doctor with his tired but determined eyes. Something in that gaze vaguely reminded him of himself in his early years, before success and money had changed him.
“All right,” he finally agreed, “more to appease the girls than because I actually believe it’s possible. I’ll go see him tomorrow, but please don’t get your hopes up.” The next morning brought unexpectedly clear skies after days of rain. Marco, feeling a bit better after a surprisingly restful night’s sleep, found the triplets already dressed and waiting in the living room when he came downstairs. They were wearing new clothes bought by the housekeeper, following Marco’s instructions—simple but good quality, far from the ostentatious luxury Cassandra would have chosen, but infinitely better than the worn dresses they had arrived in.
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