My Dearest Vincent,
I’ve hesitated for too long, holding this pen with thoughts that felt too heavy to translate into words. But here I am, finally, reaching out to you from Demomire.
You must be wondering how I found myself in this peculiar town. After the public scandal Ada orchestrated, it became impossible to stay in the city. Every corner, every familiar face reminded me of the humiliation and your entrapment in that loveless marriage. The walls were closing in on me, and staying there felt like a slow suffocation.
One evening, after a particularly harsh confrontation with Ada where she threatened to ruin us both if we didn’t end things, I found an old advertisement tucked away in a medical journal. It was from Dr. Thaddeus Crane, seeking a nurse for his practice in Demomire. His methods sounded unconventional—almost outlandish—but something about the ad called to me. Maybe it was the desperation or perhaps the lure of starting anew somewhere no one knew our story.
I packed my belongings hastily that night, with no clear plan except to escape the looming shadow of Ada’s vengeance. I boarded the earliest train heading west, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. Each chug of the engine felt like a heartbeat propelling me towards an uncertain but promising future.
Upon arriving in Demomire, I was greeted by a landscape both beautiful and eerie. The town is unlike any place I’ve ever seen—a blend of wild frontier spirit and mysterious old-world charm. Dr. Crane welcomed me with open arms, his practice is indeed unconventional, as hinted in his ad, but there’s something almost endearing about his eccentric ways.
I’m determined to bring modern medicine here, despite the strange superstitions that permeate this place. Already I’ve met some townsfolk who are as wary as they are welcoming. There’s much work to be done, Vincent, and it’s invigorating in ways I didn’t anticipate.
Demomire is a place of strange contrasts. The town itself is an amalgamation of old world elegance and the rugged charm of the frontier. As I wander its streets, I see mansions with grand facades standing next to simple wooden shacks. The architecture tells the story of a town that has seen prosperity and hardship in equal measure. It’s almost as if the town itself embodies the same contradictions I feel within me.
I am currently Living in the Hall of Medicine, it is connected to a massive library, even bigger than ones I have seen in cities and it certainly has its own peculiarities. The building itself is an imposing three-story structure made from dark granite, with intricate carvings that seem almost alive in the dim light. Gargoyles, similar to those on the library, watch over us here as well, their stony faces adding to the somber atmosphere.
The interior is both awe-inspiring and unsettling. The atrium greets visitors with a stained-glass ceiling depicting scenes from the history of medicine. When sunlight filters through it, casting ethereal patterns on the marble floors below, it feels like stepping into another world.
Yet, despite its grandeur, there’s an undeniable eeriness that pervades the hospital. At night, when most have retired to their quarters, the building seems to take on a life of its own. Strange sounds echo through the corridors—soft whispers that vanish when you strain to hear them more clearly. Shadows dance along the walls in ways that defy logic.
I’ve often found myself jolted awake by unexplained noises coming from the dissection theaters or pathology labs. Once, I swore I heard faint chanting coming from one of the autopsy rooms. I rushed there only to find it empty, save for the lingering scent of formaldehyde.
As I lie awake in my modest room within these hallowed halls, I can’t help but wonder if Demomire is seeping into my very soul.
My work at the hospital has been both challenging and rewarding. Dr. Thaddeus Crane is an enigma—his methods unconventional, yet undeniably effective. He mixes science with something that borders on mysticism, a practice that intrigues me and challenges my firmly held beliefs in modern medicine.
But Vincent, it’s not just the professional challenges that weigh on my mind. It’s you. Every patient I tend to, every ailment I diagnose, I find myself wishing you were here to share these moments with me—to offer your insight, your steady hands in surgery, your comforting presence in times of crisis.
I’ve found solace in the company of Matilda “Tilly” O’Hara, the town herbalist. Her knowledge of herbal remedies is extensive and impressive; she reminds me so much of why I fell in love with medicine in the first place—the endless pursuit of knowledge for the betterment of others. Tilly and I share long conversations about our patients and treatments, and she has become a friend I never expected to find here.
Yet even as I forge new bonds and immerse myself in this community, there’s an emptiness that lingers—a space only you can fill. Perhaps it’s foolish to hold on to what we had, especially given the pain it brought us both. But letting go feels impossible.
Just yesterday, an incident unfolded that left me quite unsettled. A young boy was brought to us, feverish and delirious, his skin painted with strange rashes that seemed to dance across his flesh like shadows at twilight. Without hesitation, I suggested we bathe him in cool water to bring down the fever and prepare a dose of quinine, trusting in the science that has been the backbone of my training.
Dr. Crane, however, had other plans. He insisted we forgo what I knew to be proven treatments in favor of his own peculiar brand of medicine—a poultice made from herbs whispered to be more than mere plants but storied relics of Demomire’s mystical past. “The land speaks through these leaves,” he claimed, his voice as unwavering as the lines that time had etched upon his face.
I protested, citing studies and cases from medical journals that supported my approach, but he simply patted my hand in a manner both dismissive and kind—a gesture I found infuriatingly patronizing. “Abagail,” he said with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years within it, “science is a powerful tool, but here in Demomire, we must also listen to the whispers of tradition.”
The boy was treated with Dr. Crane’s concoction and, to my great chagrin and secret relief, his condition improved by morning. I’m relieved that his natural immune response took effect. It is a difficult pill to swallow—watching a man I respect blend superstition with science so seamlessly.
Vincent, there’s something else I must share. My duties here in Demomire extend beyond the hospital walls. I’ve found myself working in the Sanitarium as well. The experience has been… challenging, to say the least.
The sanitarium is unlike any place I’ve ever encountered. Hidden beneath the dense, foreboding forests, its only visible structure is a glass pyramid, surrounded by four stone winged lions. This pyramid casts an eerie yet ethereal glow into the depths below, creating an atmosphere that is both awe-inspiring and unsettling.
Access to the sanitarium is through a narrow tunnel within the Hall of Medicine, a passage that adds to the sense of isolation and confinement. As I walk through this tunnel each day, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the walls, I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding.
Once inside, the stark contrast between the outer world and this subterranean refuge is jarring. The main hall, illuminated by light streaming through the glass pyramid skylight, feels almost cathedral-like. Yet beneath this grandeur lies an undeniable coldness—a reminder that this place is designed for control as much as care.
My work in the sanitarium involves tending to patients with severe mental disorders. Each room is sparsely furnished to minimize distractions and potential hazards. The heavy iron-bound doors and barred windows create an environment that prioritizes security over comfort. It’s a stark departure from my usual practice at the hospital, where empathy and comfort are paramount.
The treatment rooms are equipped with advanced psychiatric care technology—stainless steel fixtures and clinical white walls that create a sterile environment emphasizing the seriousness of our work. These rooms stand in stark contrast to the gothic ambiance of the rest of the sanitarium.
Working at both the hospital and sanitarium has expanded my understanding of medicine in ways I never imagined. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile my training with what I see here, but it also offers me a unique perspective on healing—a perspective that might have been lost had I not come to Demomire.
A case does weigh heavily on my mind, one that has left me grappling with more questions than answers. A few days ago, a man was brought into the Sanitarium, found wandering aimlessly in the woods surrounding the town. He was disheveled, covered in mud and scratches, his eyes wide with a wildness that spoke of untold horrors.
Dr. Crane had summoned me to assist with his initial examination. The moment I stepped into the treatment room, the air grew thick with tension. The man, restrained on the bed, thrashed violently against the leather straps binding his wrists and ankles. His guttural growls echoed off the stone walls, sending chills down my spine.
“What happened to him?” I asked, my voice barely masking the unease I felt.
Dr. Crane shook his head slowly. “We’re not sure. He was found by a couple of hunters near Whispering Pines Boarding House. They said he appeared out of nowhere, as if he had materialized from the mist.”
I approached the man cautiously, noting the deep cuts and bruises marring his skin. His eyes met mine for a brief moment, and I saw something there—fear, confusion, perhaps even a plea for help—before they glazed over once more with that feral intensity.
“Do we know who he is?” I inquired, glancing at Dr. Crane.
“No identification,” he replied grimly. “And he hasn’t spoken a coherent word since he arrived.”
We tried to calm him with gentle words and soothing tones, but nothing seemed to penetrate the veil of madness that had descended upon him. He would alternate between fits of violent rage and moments of complete helplessness, curling into himself like a wounded animal.
Dr. Crane suggested using a sedative to ease his distress temporarily while we continued our observations. I administered it carefully, watching as the man’s struggles gradually subsided into restless slumber.
Vincent, I yearn for your company and counsel more with each passing day. As I navigate this new chapter of my life, my thoughts invariably return to you. Your absence hangs heavy upon my heart like a shroud. Each day brings fresh challenges and wonders, yet without you by my side to share in them, they seem diminished somehow—shadows of what they could be.
The city, with its cacophony and chaos, now seems a distant dream. I long for the familiar hum of its streets and the comforting rhythm of our life together within its embrace. Here in Demomire, I am reminded of how deeply you are ingrained in every facet of my being.
And then there is Ada… her name alone sends a chill through me colder than any Demomire night. My love, I am wracked with fear at the thought of her wrath—a tempest that threatens to sweep away all we hold dear. She is like the storm clouds that loom on the horizon here: distant still but promising turbulence when they finally descend upon us.
Yet despite it all—despite my fears and this gnawing sense of isolation—I am resolved to stand firm in this strange new world. For I carry within me the fire of our love; it guides me through each day and warms me through each cold night.
I yearn for you, Vincent—your voice, your touch, your unwavering presence. But until we can be reunited beneath these wide frontier skies, know that you are with me always—in every beat of my heart and every breath I draw.
With all my love, Abagail
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