The fluorescent lights above flicker softly as Dr. Shaun Murphy sits alone on a bench, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. His scrubs are wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed. He’s not just tired — he’s unraveling.

Earlier that day, a young patient — 12 years old, a girl who reminded him of Steve — died unexpectedly on the table. The surgery had gone well, the prognosis was positive, but a post-op clot took her life in seconds. One moment she was smiling at Shaun, telling him she wanted to be a doctor like him. The next, she was gone.

Shaun: “I told her she would be okay.”

He rocks slightly, back and forth, like he did as a child when everything became too loud. In his mind, her laughter echoes. Then Steve’s voice. Then silence. Too much silence.

Dr. Glassman approaches quietly, hesitating a moment before sitting beside him.

Glassman: “There are going to be days like this, Shaun. Days where doing everything right still isn’t enough.”

Shaun doesn’t look at him. His voice is small, broken.

Shaun: “She trusted me. I told her I was good at this. I believed I was.”

Glassman: “You are good at this. But being good doesn’t make you invincible. You’re human.”

Shaun shakes his head.

Shaun: “No, I’m not. Not like everyone else. I see things differently. I fix things. I was supposed to fix her.”

A single tear slides down his cheek — he doesn’t notice.

Glassman: “You did everything you could. And you loved her in your own way. That matters, Shaun.”

Shaun finally looks up, eyes searching.

Shaun: “Then why does it hurt so much?”

Glassman has no answer. He just reaches over and puts a hand on Shaun’s shoulder. And they sit there — two people bound by grief, by medicine, by loss — in a quiet hallway, where the weight of one life gone is heavier than any diagnosis.