The silence that followed was not empty. It was heavy—the sound of reality rearranging itself. “He is…?” Kabir couldn’t say the word. “The ambulance just left, Sahab,” Imran said, voice cracking. “You need to come to Max Hospital. Directly to the… mortuary entrance.” Kabir lowered the phone. The corridor outside the boardroom was bustling. People rushed to meetings, checked emails, laughed, optimized workflows. The world was loud with the noise of doing. But Kabir stood inside a vacuum. He stared at the device in his hand—the same device he used to track steps, heart rate, net worth. The device he had prioritized over the voice of the man who taught him to speak. He remembered the first buzz. I could have answered. He remembered the second buzz. I could have heard his voice. He felt nausea rise, almost bringing him to his knees. He had traded the last moment of his father’s life for a graph on a screen. He had declined the Thou to secure the It. And now the phone was quiet. Quiet like a room after a funeral. Quiet like a life after love is postponed too long.