The apartment was exactly the same. That was the insult. Kabir unlocked the door with trembling fingers. He expected physics to have shifted—cracked walls, shattered windows, a world that looked broken. A man—his father—had ceased to exist three hours ago in a cold triage room. The world should have changed. But the Wi-Fi router blinked steady green. The air purifier hummed its soft, expensive tune. The robotic vacuum sat docked, waiting. The apartment was functioning perfectly. It was indifferent. Kabir stepped inside without removing his shoes. The small violation felt like a scream. “Dad?” The word escaped before his prefrontal cortex could stop it. Neuroscience says the brain doesn’t only react; it predicts. For thirty-two years Kabir’s brain built a detailed map of reality, and his father was a load-bearing wall. His brain predicted the smell of Vicks in the hallway. It predicted Hindi news at volume 12. It predicted rubber slippers shuffling. When the senses returned “Null,” the brain didn’t accept “Death.” It registered a glitch. Try again, the neurons fired. Listen harder.