The Homeopathys Heirloom
7
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LENA'S POV
Morning light streams through the clinic’s lace curtains, painting the wooden floor in shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The air is thick with the earthy scent of dried herbs and eucalyptus—a fragrance so intertwined with my grandmother that for a moment, I can almost hear her voice. It’s like she’s here, just out of reach, her presence lingering in the quiet corners of the clinic she fought so hard to preserve.
I sit cross-legged on the floor, my fingertips brushing over the edges of worn cardboard boxes that surround me like sentinels of the past. Each one is a small archive of her life—recipes for tinctures scrawled on scraps of paper, faded photographs, even a bundle of dried lavender tied with twine. The weight of these objects is more than physical; it presses down on me with every reminder of who she was and what she stood for.
But this isn’t just a journey through memories. It’s a search for answers—answers to the questions that have haunted me since the first whispers of Reyes began threading their way through the clinic’s history. What choices had she made? What had she sacrificed? And why does it feel like every answer I find only deepens the mystery?
One box catches my eye, half-hidden beneath a stack of medical textbooks. It’s smaller than the others, wrapped in an embroidered cloth that’s frayed at the edges but still vibrant with faded floral patterns. My breath quickens as I tug it free, the delicate weight of it settling in my lap.
I unravel the cloth slowly, reverently, revealing a leather journal beneath. The cover is cracked with age, the initials “M.T.” embossed in the bottom corner. My fingers hover over the letters, a swell of emotion rising in my chest.
“Abuela,” I whisper, tracing the familiar curves of her handwriting.
The journal feels impossibly fragile in my hands, as though it holds not just the weight of years but the essence of her struggles and triumphs. When I open it, the faint scent of aged paper and ink surrounds me, pulling me deeper into the moment. Her elegant script fills the pages, each word purposeful and deliberate, as if she knew they’d be read long after she was gone.
I flip to the first entry, dated decades ago, when the clinic was still in its infancy. Her words are equal parts hope and worry—notes about funding challenges, gratitude for the patients who believed in her, and hints of the battles she fought to keep this place alive. Each sentence feels like a glimpse into her heart, her strength, and her vulnerabilities.
June 5, 2015 The council approved my request to expand the clinic today. On paper, it’s a victory—a step forward for the community, for the dream I’ve poured my soul into. But the speed of their agreement unsettles me. They didn’t question the budget or challenge the scope. They just nodded along, too eager to offer support. I should be grateful, but gratitude feels like a luxury I can’t afford. In their eyes, the clinic is a quaint relic, something to appease the voters. I wonder if they understand what this place truly represents. Or if they care. Healing is not a transaction, I wrote in my proposal. It’s a commitment to the soul, a recognition that the body cannot be separated from the spirit. They didn’t even glance at that section.
August 12, 2017 Reyes came to see me today. I knew his reputation before he stepped through the door—slick deals, whispered scandals, and promises that come with invisible strings. He was charming, as expected, his words smooth and calculated. He offered me everything I’ve been fighting for: funding, medical supplies, new equipment to keep the clinic running. He painted a picture of progress, one where I wouldn’t have to worry about how to keep the lights on or whether the medicine would stretch through the next month. But his eyes... cold, calculating. The kind of eyes that weigh people in terms of their utility and discard them when they’re no longer useful. I wanted to slam the door in his face. Instead, I signed the agreement. Was it desperation? Pride? Or the hope that I could outmaneuver him? Whatever the reason, it’s done now. And the weight of it sits heavy on my chest. Modern medicine can’t be a god, I wrote in my notes afterward. But it’s worshiped like one. And the price of that worship is human lives.
April 3, 2020 I’m losing myself. Or maybe I’ve already lost myself, and this is just the realization setting in. The deals I’ve made, the compromises—they’re suffocating. I tell myself it’s worth it. The clinic survives. People get the care they need. But at night, when the stillness sets in, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. I see the patients who come through the doors, their faces filled with trust, and it steadies me. But I also see the shipments that arrive in unmarked boxes, the contracts that require my silence, and the hands I’ve had to shake to keep this place running. Healing is sacred, I remind myself. But how can I reconcile that with the machine I’ve let into this sacred space?
Her words tug at my heart, each entry pulling me deeper into her struggles. Her fears, her convictions, her sacrifices—they’re all laid bare on the pages of this journal, a roadmap of a life spent fighting battles I’m only beginning to understand.
The final entry I read is dated just a year before she passed:
March 12, 2024 The clinic is quiet tonight. It always feels more alive during the day, bustling with people and purpose. But now, in the silence, I feel the weight of all the choices I’ve made pressing down on me. They weren’t all the right ones—I can admit that to myself. But I’ve always tried to make them for the right reasons. For the people who walk through these doors. For the ones who trust me to see them as more than just numbers on a chart. Healing is not just science, I wrote once. It’s art. It’s connection. It’s knowing when to trust a machine and when to trust your hands. It’s knowing when to listen to the patient and when to let them guide you. Reyes doesn’t understand that. To him, it’s all numbers. Efficiency. Power. If I had the strength, I would fight him tooth and nail. But I’m tired. So tired. Who will fight when I’m gone?
The weight of her words settles over me like a storm cloud. She wasn’t just a healer—she was a warrior, someone who fought against a system that saw people as commodities and medicine as a business. And now, all of that—the clinic, her legacy, her sacrifices—has fallen into my hands.
The creak of the front door jolts me, and I look up to see Noah stepping inside. He pauses in the doorway, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room before landing on me. His presence feels larger than life, filling the quiet space effortlessly.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice calm but laced with curiosity.
“I found something,” I reply, holding up the journal. “It’s my grandmother’s diary. She wrote about Reyes, about the deals she made.”
He crosses the room in a few deliberate steps, crouching beside me. I hand him the journal, and he flips through its pages, his expression hardening as he reads.
“She knew exactly what she was getting into,” he says quietly, his voice edged with something I can’t quite place.
“She didn’t have a choice,” I snap, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “The clinic was everything to her. She did what she had to do to keep it alive.”
His gaze lifts to meet mine, sharp and unyielding. “And now it’s your turn. But if Reyes had this much control over her, how do we stop him?”
I don’t have an answer. The weight of her decisions, her sacrifices, presses down on me like an anchor. How do you fight against something so deeply rooted, so underhanded?
Noah sets the journal down, leaning against the counter. His voice softens, but the intensity in his eyes doesn’t waver. “Lena, I get it. You want to honor her legacy. To protect what she built. But you can’t do this alone. Let me help you.”
“Why do you even care?” I ask, crossing my arms. “This isn’t your fight.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, something raw flickers across his expression. “Because I’ve seen what happens when people like Reyes get their way. I’ve seen lives destroyed. I couldn’t stop it then. But maybe I can help stop it now.”
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. For a moment, the edges of my frustration soften, replaced by something else—curiosity. He’s not just the billionaire who bulldozed into Portside Bay anymore. He’s someone who carries scars of his own, someone who seems to understand loss and guilt far too well.
But his words linger, and I can’t stop myself from pressing. “What do you mean, you’ve seen it before? What happened?”
His gaze flickers away, his jaw clenching so hard that I can almost hear his teeth grinding. For a beat, he doesn’t answer, his silence thick with unspoken things. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower, guarded.
“It’s complicated,” he says, the weight of those words landing like a stone between us. “Let’s just say I trusted the wrong people. People who cared more about profits than they did about lives.”
“That’s not an answer,” I counter, leaning forward slightly. “What happened, Noah?”
His blue eyes meet mine, sharp and unyielding. For a moment, I think he’s going to shut me out completely. Then he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, the tension radiating from him palpable.
“There was... a mistake,” he says carefully, his words slow and deliberate, as if he’s piecing them together from broken shards. “A system failed. Lives were lost because of it. And I was there. I—” He stops, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s all I can share right now.”
I study him, the conflict etched into every line of his face. He’s holding something back—something big. I can feel it in the way his shoulders are tense, in the way his eyes won’t quite meet mine for more than a moment at a time. But whatever it is, it’s not something he’s ready to share.
“Why can’t you just tell me?” I ask, my tone softer now. “If we’re in this together—”
“I signed something,” he cuts in, his voice firmer now. “A non-disclosure agreement. It’s not just my secret to tell, Lena. And even if it were...” He trails off, his expression darkening. “It’s not something I’m proud of.”
The vulnerability in his voice, in his body language, tugs at me. He’s not just hiding a secret—he’s carrying the weight of it, letting it shape the person he’s become. The way his jaw clenches, the tightness in his shoulders, it’s like he’s bracing against something I can’t see. The rawness in him is there, just beneath the surface, but it’s buried deep, locked away behind layers of control that I know he’s terrified of losing.
And yet, I can’t help but notice how his body shifts as he stands there, every muscle in his frame taut with tension, as if he’s fighting against something more than just this conversation. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt, the faintest outlines of his chest and stomach becoming evident beneath it. There’s a quiet strength in the way he moves—deliberate, measured, as though every inch of him is carefully calculated, but just below that, there’s an undeniable heat. The way his arms flex slightly as he leans against the desk, the way his biceps tighten when he shifts his weight, pulls me in like a magnet. I try not to notice, but it’s impossible to ignore.
I’m hyperaware of the way he stands, tall and commanding, every inch of him carved from some kind of quiet power. I can almost feel the heat radiating off him, even across the room. The intense look in his eyes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he fights against whatever it is he’s holding back—it all pulls me in, against my better judgment.
And while a part of me wants to push further, to peel back the layers he’s so carefully constructed, another part of me knows I need to let it go. For now. But damn it, the pull between us is stronger than ever, and I can feel it in every inch of my body.
“Okay,” I say quietly, leaning back. “But if we’re doing this, we do it my way. The clinic comes first.”
His gaze snaps back to mine, and for a moment, the tension between us shifts—something unspoken passing in the space between our words.
“Agreed,” he replies, his voice steady. “The clinic comes first.”
The air between us hums with the weight of what hasn’t been said, the secrets and vulnerabilities that linger just beneath the surface. And yet, for the first time, I feel like we’re on the same page—not as adversaries, but as something closer to allies. Maybe even more.
Hours slip by as we sift through the documents, the room thick with the scent of aged paper and determination. My grandmother’s words, the choices she made, and the risks she took are etched into every page. But the story they tell is darker than I imagined.
Reyes wasn’t just a benefactor, swooping in to save the clinic in its time of need. He was a predator. Every shipment, every vague entry in her journal, every council meeting decision—it all points to a web of corruption that reaches far beyond Portside Bay. The clinic wasn’t just a lifeline for this town. It was a tool, manipulated to serve a larger, far more sinister purpose.
Noah breaks the silence, his voice low but steady. “She was brave. Stronger than most people I’ve met.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “She had to be. This town wasn’t always kind to her. People doubted her, mocked her for her methods. But she never gave up.”
Noah leans back slightly, his sharp eyes softening in a way that catches me off guard. “She sounds a lot like someone else I know.”
The words hang in the air, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. There’s no teasing in his tone, no hint of sarcasm—just quiet admiration that feels more dangerous than anything Reyes could throw my way. I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat. How do I even begin to process the weight of what he’s saying?
Before I can find an answer, my phone buzzes on the counter, breaking the moment like shattering glass. The sharp sound sends a jolt through me, and dread pools in my stomach as I reach for it. The screen lights up with a new message, the words sending a chill down my spine:
The clinic’s future is in your hands; cooperate or collapse.
The room spins for a second, the weight of the threat pressing down on me like a physical force. My breath catches as panic claws at the edges of my resolve. Without a word, I hand the phone to Noah, unable to look at him, unable to speak.
He takes it, his jaw tightening as his sharp gaze skims over the words. “This isn’t just a warning,” he says, his tone like steel. “It’s an ultimatum.”
The room feels colder, as though the shadows in the corners have crept closer. My grandmother’s voice echoes in my memory, her determination to protect this clinic no matter the cost. She fought for this place, for these people. And now it’s my turn.
“We fight,” I say, my voice steady even as my hands tremble. The fear is there, clawing at me, but it’s swallowed by something stronger—resolve. “No matter what it takes, we fight.”
Noah nods, his expression hardening into something fierce, something unbreakable. “Then let’s make sure Reyes regrets ever stepping foot in Portside Bay.”
His words feel like a vow, binding us together in this fight. As the silence stretches, the message on my phone seems to pulse with the weight of its threat. But instead of breaking us, it solidifies something unspoken between us. We’re not just fighting for the clinic. We’re fighting for each other.
And Reyes has no idea what’s coming.