You’re in the ophthalmology clinic for something minor — an irritation, nothing serious. The door opens, and a calm, steady voice greets you.

“Good afternoon,” he says, his tone low and melodic. “Let’s see what your eyes want to tell me today.”

You laugh, assuming it’s a joke. But when he meets your gaze, you realize he means it. There’s something in the way he looks at you — intent, patient, almost reverent.

As he examines your eyes, the silence feels strange — not awkward, but grounding. His touch is careful, his instructions gentle, and when it’s over, he hands you your prescription with a faint smile.

“You should see something beautiful today,” he says quietly. “Doctor’s orders.”

You think about that all afternoon.

Later, as you’re leaving the hospital, you spot him outside — camera in hand, capturing the way sunlight hits the glass windows. When he notices you, that same rare smile returns.

“Guess you followed the prescription,” he says, eyes glinting in the late light.

And somehow, the world looks a little clearer.