Dr. Farah didn’t look like a brochure doctor. Her hair was messy, tied back with a pencil. She looked at the waiting room—this aquarium of anxious souls. Kabir clutching his chest. Meera checking her watch. Aarav drowning in blue light. She sighed. Dr. Farah knew the reports before they were printed. Kabir’s ECG would be normal. Meera’s MRI would be clean. Aarav’s endoscopy would show mild inflammation—nothing more. She called it the Diagnostic Mirage. People came hoping for a tumor, a blockage, a fracture—anything tangible. Because if it’s biological, you can cut it out. But you cannot perform surgery on a life empty of meaning. You cannot prescribe antibiotics for the guilt of treating your parents like furniture. “Mr. Kabir?” she called. Kabir jumped, stood up, smoothed his blazer, and walked toward her—ready for the verdict, ready to be a tragic hero.