In September, Lily visited me with a rolled-up blueprint tucked under her arm. She was now a renowned medical infrastructure engineer, one who constantly refused to design any empty voids behind hospital walls. "Dad," Lily said, spreading the blueprint across the dining table. "I just took on a new project. Redesigning the genetic counseling and assisted reproduction center for the State General Hospital." I looked at the drawing. It was completely different from Lily’s previous designs. Instead of solid, thick walls, this blueprint was filled with transparent glass panels. The storage areas, the consultation rooms—everything was enclosed in glass. "Nothing is hidden," Lily explained, tracing her finger along the corridors. "Patients can see the specialists working. Data is processed openly. Natural light reaches the deepest corners of the building. There are no dark maintenance corridors. No drywall partitions separating the truth." "It's beautiful, Lily," I said, feeling the weight in every stroke of her pen. "I thought about the four sandwiches," Lily said softly, her smile tinged with sadness. "I want to create a place where no three-year-old child ever has to sneak food to someone hidden in the dark. I want everything to be transparent right from the foundation." I placed my hand on my daughter’s shoulder. Lily had written in her college essay that she didn't save Sophie; she simply met her sister in a circumstance that outsiders found dramatic. But through these buildings, Lily was truly saving other families from similar tragedies. She was building the exits our family once never had.