We opened the shutters before the heat set in. Someone had left marigolds at the door. Inside, fans turned the air into a slow river.
I have learned that time in a waiting room is not the enemy; it is a kind of listening. People arrive with stories, not just symptoms.
Small rituals
A stool by the window, a steel cup, a notebook. I write just enough to remember the person, not the disease.
Care begins when you do not rush the story.
By noon, we had seen thirteen patients. We prescribed medicines, yes, but also rest, shade, and a promise to return next week.