Years later, Rejoice stood in a bustling hospital, her white coat a symbol of the healer she had become. The corridors echoed with life, and each patient’s story mingled with her own. Her face, though scarred, was a testament to her journey—a journey that began with pain but blossomed into purpose.

Ironically, fate brought Aunt Monica to that very hospital. The years had worn her down, her once sharp eyes now clouded with regret. She lay in a bed, frail and alone, when the door opened and Rejoice entered, a clipboard in hand.