Backstory

Harold Whitfield was born in 1856, the grandson of Shadewood Hollow’s legendary “Doc Folk,” Dr. Jacob Whitfield. His family’s roots in Shadewood Hollow ran deep, intertwining Scots-Irish heritage with local Appalachian folklore. While Jacob had been a healer of both body and spirit — a man who stitched wounds with thread in one hand and pressed poultices with the other — Harold would be cut from a colder, sharper cloth.

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Raised in the shadow of his grandfather’s reputation, Harold’s upbringing was one of precision and expectation. His father, Eli Whitfield, was a man of discipline, who believed in steady hands, sharp tools, and clear lines. Jacob had taught Eli the value of balance between medicine and folklore, but Eli leaned toward modernity. It was under this strict tutelage that Harold learned the art of surgery, anatomy, and the science of observation. His father's voice echoed in his mind whenever he reached for a scalpel: "A straight cut heals cleaner than a jagged one." It was advice Harold took to heart in more ways than one.

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Unlike his grandfather’s warmth, Harold’s bedside manner was cold and pragmatic. While Jacob could charm a miner into trusting him, Harold didn’t offer charm — he offered results. His eyes were said to "see more than a man should," sharp as any blade in his surgical kit. People often left his gaze feeling measured, like a piece of meat being weighed on a butcher’s scale. It wasn’t cruelty, just clarity. He knew what a man’s bones looked like under his skin, and that knowledge left little room for sentiment.

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When his grandfather passed in 1879, Harold inherited the Shadewood Hollow Infirmary. The old shack Jacob had built in 1848 had grown over the years, and under Harold’s care, it grew colder and more orderly. Every tool had its place, every jar its label. Some of those jars still bore Jacob's handwriting, filled with roots, bark, and unknown things Harold didn’t dare discard.

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His approach to medicine became infamous. While miners once came to Jacob for comfort, they came to Harold because they had no choice. They’d sit on the cracked leather of his surgical chair, staring at the old straps still hanging from its arms, and listen to the steady tick of his pocket watch. Harold’s patience was legendary, his silence louder than any sermon. He didn’t rush. He didn’t flinch. And if you ever heard him say, “Breathe,” you knew it was an order, not a suggestion.

By 1890, Harold was known as much for his results as he was for his unnerving presence. Miners left sage and lavender at the old hickory tree where his grandfather was buried, but they never left offerings for Harold. Some said his work didn’t need blessings. Others believed it didn’t deserve them.

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The ticking of his watch, slow and steady, was always in the background. Some called it a reminder of time running out. Others whispered that it wasn’t ticking for him at all. It was ticking for them.

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