NOVPUBNovember 29, 1899 — Ashbury General Hospital, Central Amerathia
The early morning breeze rustled through the rows of poplar trees lining the perimeter of Ashbury General, one of the newest public hospitals funded by Amerathia's postwar reconstruction plan. Its redbrick facade was simple but dignified, with large windows to let in the sunlight and wide, gently sloped ramps replacing narrow stairwells—features designed by doctors, not bureaucrats.
President Matthew Hesh stepped out of the polished black government carriage, a little slower than usual. His coat, dark gray and neatly tailored, fluttered slightly in the wind. At his side, Amber Hesh descended with poise, wearing a dove-blue dress and a traveling hat pinned neatly to her auburn hair. She carried a small notebook in her gloved hand.
The hospital administrator, a stocky man with silver spectacles and a pinched voice, greeted them on the steps. "Mr. President, Mrs. Hesh—it's an honor. We've prepared a tour of the first and second floors, as well as the maternity wing."
Matthew nodded warmly. "Lead the way, Doctor Langford."
Inside, the hospital smelled of pine soap and polished tile, with only faint hints of iodine and gauze. Nurses in clean white uniforms moved briskly down corridors. A few glanced up and did double takes before realizing who had just entered. There was no fanfare. No marching band. Just a quiet shift in the hallway's tempo as the most recognizable couple in the nation passed through.
Amber walked beside her husband with practiced calm. She'd learned over the years how to observe, to pick up details even when no one was speaking them aloud. A nurse's worn shoes. The makeshift curtain divider in the recovery ward. The cracked linoleum near the supply closet.
"These beds—how many do you staff?" she asked gently, stopping near a post-operative room.
Langford cleared his throat. "We have thirty per floor, with room to expand to fifty. We're training interns from the capital, but it's still a scramble. The war drained the physician class."
Matthew looked over the ward. Some patients turned their heads. Others, missing limbs or wrapped in chest bandages, simply stared out the windows.
"Any of these veterans?" he asked quietly.
"Nearly half," Langford replied. "Mostly from the coastal defenses and naval logistics corps."
Matthew approached one bed. A young man no older than twenty-five lay reading a dog-eared paperback, one leg missing from the knee down.
The president spoke softly. "How's the food?"
The man blinked, startled. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Better than rations, sir. Much better."
Matthew chuckled. "Good. Because I'm told the next batch of funding includes bakery ovens for each wing. Doctors can fix wounds, but fresh bread lifts spirits."
Amber leaned forward slightly. "What are you reading?"
The man held up the book. "A mystery novel. My sister mailed it to me. Says I should stop reading war stories."
She smiled. "She's a wise woman."
—---
October 1, 1899 — North Harrow Children's Infirmary
The train to North Harrow had barely slowed before local townspeople gathered at the station, whispering about the presidential visit. But when the Heshes stepped off the platform, there were no speeches. Only waves, nods, and the sound of the wind stirring the newly hung banner on the children's hospital gates.
Inside, the mood was different. Children were harder to impress with politics.
Amber walked ahead this time, guided by instinct more than protocol. A young girl with a cast on her arm drew flowers on a sketchpad in the corner of the common room. Two boys played a card game on a rolling tray between their beds, arguing over whether knights beat kings. Laughter drifted down the hall.
The chief pediatrician, Dr. Eleanor Rusk, met them by the nursery. "It's their nap hour, but you're welcome to peek in," she whispered.
The couple stood side by side at the glass panel. Inside, a row of bassinets rocked gently. Tiny fingers waved in sleep. A nurse with braided hair carefully adjusted one of the blankets.
Matthew exhaled softly. "This is what we were fighting for. Right here."
Dr. Rusk nodded. "And what you're helping build. This place runs on public funding, Mr. President. Before the war, it was a converted granary with cracked windows."
Amber turned. "And now?"
"Now we have seven full-time staff, a vaccine storage room, and a schedule of visiting doctors from the university. Most important—our survival rate has doubled in two years."
Later, in the dining hall-turned-auditorium, the Heshes addressed a group of hospital staff and town elders. Amber took the podium first.
"I'm not a doctor. I'm not an engineer. But I am a mother. And I know that a child's pain—especially one that we can ease—is not something a civilized nation should ignore."
She looked around the room. 𝓷ℴ𝓿𝓅𝓊𝒷.𝓬𝓸𝓂
"So we won't. Not now. Not ever again."
Matthew followed, voice steady.
"Some of you lost sons. Others, fathers. We cannot give them back. But we can build the future they believed in. One hospital at a time. One village at a time."
He paused, letting the silence speak for a moment.
"There's no headline in preventing infection. No statue for supplying clean bandages. But this work is what holds the country together."
—---
December 4, 1899 — The Presidential Railcar, En Route to Calverside
That evening, under the warm glow of the private railcar's lamps, Matthew poured tea while Amber sat curled near the window, her notebook open across her lap.
"What did you think of Harrow?" he asked.
"It reminded me," she replied, "that the work doesn't end with treaties. It begins with train tracks, schoolbooks, and antiseptic."
He handed her the tea. "Funny. That's exactly what I told Congress."
She smiled. "Then maybe Congress should listen to your wife more often."
He laughed, then sat down opposite her.
Through the window, pine trees blurred past in streaks of moonlit green. A long stretch of rail stretched into the distance, laid one piece at a time by laborers and engineers and visionaries who believed in more than borders.
They drank quietly, the rhythm of the tracks filling the space between words.
And far behind them, the hospitals they had visited remained—open, healing, and humming with life.
