She saw it with physical force: while she ran a rat race, Rohan had been living. He had the spiritual insight she preached but didn’t practice. Other men were rich—but absent. Other men were fit—but cruel. Rohan had been a sanctuary she tried to renovate into an office. “Alas,” she whispered to the empty room. Now Kabir sat outside her cabin, weeping for his father. The infection was the same. Transactional mindset. We treat people like investments, she thought. We wait for ROI before we invest love. But people are not stocks. They are sunsets. You don’t optimize a sunset. You watch it—because it will be dark soon. Farah tore up Kabir’s prescription. She wrote a different one. Rx: 1) Go to the place your father loved most. 2) Sit there 30 minutes without your phone. 3) Forgive yourself for being blind. He knew. He always knew. Science could explain grief—amygdala, prefrontal cortex, cortisol. But it couldn’t absolve guilt. Only the recognition that “I” exists in relation to “Thou” could do that. Farah opened her gallery to an old photo of Rohan holding a pigeon. No critique. No editing. “I love you,” she told the pixels. Then she put on her doctor’s mask and called the next patient.