(scorched) log.
[while shirley's bedside manner wouldn't be considered spectacular, it wouldn't be considered awful, either; she handles patients slowly and gently, never expectant of payment or mocking their suffering, quietly and soothingly. she almost appears a different woman, solemn and smiling only in response to gratitude or to ease fears. so to (most of) those that work in the clinic with her, it isn't of any surprise shirley, personally, accompanies a small girl to the park.
her mother was ill (again) and rests in one of the clinic's bed, healed now but still drained. the girl - annalee -, no older than seven and full of too much energy for the clinic, needed an outlet; a lull in patients meant someone could afford to take her out somewhere. it seemed natural shirley did, but annalee reminds her of a woman she use to know: pale-skinned and dark-haired with soft eyes. but that woman doesn't exist anymore, her heart gone.
and it's something like guilt or nostalgia or an emotion shirley doesn't acknowledge today that she takes the girl's hand, leading the way. along the way, annalee half-wrestles, half-insist to have shirley's white cloak, and it's a softness for children she does that.
the girl makes creative use of it, though. first, she pretends to be a snow monster. then, a sheep. then, a ghost (and shirley chuckle-scoffs, despite herself). by the time they reach the park, shirley isn't quite sure what the girl is anymore, but she immediately chases after other children with the cloak. they laugh and scream, and shirley tires very quickly of the noise, much as they melt her icy, little heart.
so she walks along the park, hands clasped in front of her and the satin of her dress glimmering now and then. annalee is perfectly in her sight, of course.]