My name is Gael. I am three years old. I know this because Mother tells me, not because I feel three. I do not know what "feeling three" means. The room smells like paper and metal. Paper from the folders stacked on the counter. Metal from the cold chair I sit on. The air tastes like dust. Mother holds me in her lap. Her arms are around me, tight across my chest. She rocks me slowly, though I am not moving on my own. I do not know why she does this. Her skin is warm and wet where it touches mine. She keeps making small sounds—shaky, uneven. I listen to them carefully. Hhhk—hhkkk—hhh. Not a rhythm. Not something I can follow. Her heart is beating fast. I can hear it because my ear is against her chest. It thumps hard, like a fist against a door. It is too loud. I push at her arm once, lightly. She does not move it away. The woman in the white coat sits across from us. Her hair is yellow, tied back. Her face does not move much except for a line between her eyebrows. She looks at me for a long time, then at Mother, then at Father. "He doesn't cry?" she asks.
"He doesn't…" Mother's voice breaks. "He doesn't do anything." I turn my head to look at her. Her cheeks are red. Drops fall from her eyes. They fall on my shirt, leaving wet spots. I watch one spread into the fabric until it disappears. Father is next to us in a hard chair. His arms are crossed. He stares at the floor, not at me. His foot taps. Tap-tap-tap. Fast. I count. Eleven taps before he stops. Then three more. Then none. "He doesn't smile?" the woman in white asks. "No," Father answers. His voice is low, like when doors close softly. "Not at me. Not at anyone."
"Does he ever call for you?" "No," Mother whispers. The woman in white leans forward. "Gael," she says. She is smiling now. Her teeth are white. "Can you look at me?" I am already looking at her. I always look at people. I look at the pulse in her neck, beating fast. I look at the strand of hair stuck to her lip. I look at her eyes, blinking too quickly. I look so hard I can see tiny veins in the white parts of her eyes.
But I do not answer, because I do not know why she is asking. The woman's smile gets smaller. "He doesn't respond to his name?" "He never has," Mother says. She sounds like she swallowed glass. The woman writes on a piece of paper. Skritch, skritch, skritch. I like the sound. It's steady. Predictable. I focus on it until something else catches my attention: The clock. It is on the wall above the door, round and white with black numbers. The second hand ticks softly. Tick. Tick. Tick. Perfect rhythm. I like the clock better than the people. Mother's breathing is too loud. Father's tapping is uneven. The woman's pen stops and starts. But the clock is steady. I raise my hand and point at it.
The woman in white notices. She follows my finger. "The clock?" she asks. I do not answer. I only watch it. "Does he do that often?" she asks my parents. "Do what?" Father says. "Fixate. On objects. Ignore everything else?" Mother's arms tighten again. "All the time," she whispers. The woman writes more. I listen to the skritch, skritch, skritch of the pen. I wonder why they are all staring at me like I am supposed to do something. I am not sure what. Mother's chest jerks under my ear. She is crying harder now. I hear a soft, broken word against my hair. "Why…?" I do not know what she is asking. The woman in white puts her pen down. She folds her hands together on top of the folder and leans forward slightly. "Gael," she says again. "Can you say anything for me? Any sound at all?" I blink at her. Slowly. Once. Twice. The clock ticks three times before I stop counting. Mother's hand trembles against my chest. "He can make sounds," she says quickly, like she needs to defend me. "He… he babbles sometimes, at night. Right, Dorian? You've heard him?"
Father doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is quiet. "That's not… it's not words." Mother flinches like he hit her. The woman in white nods slowly, like she expected this. She opens the folder and takes out a paper. "Mrs. Ardent, Mr. Ardent," she begins, her voice careful, "I believe your son may have a developmental disorder. Specifically—" I stop listening. Her words are too long. I don't know them. I look at her mouth moving, at the way her lips pull back from her teeth when she says certain sounds. I count how many times she blinks. Seven. Mother gasps suddenly. She covers her mouth with her hand. The sound she makes is high-pitched and sharp, and I do not like it. Father curses under his breath. His chair scrapes loudly as he stands. I flinch at that—just once, barely—and all three adults freeze. The woman in white's eyes widen. "Did you see that? He reacted to—" But I am already watching the clock again. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Mother pulls me closer, rocking again. "Is there—can we fix this? Is there therapy? Medication? Something?" The woman hesitates. "There's no cure. But early intervention—" Mother makes a noise like a sob and a laugh tangled together. Father turns away from both of us, his fists clenching at his sides. I listen to the sound of his breathing, harsh and uneven, like wind through broken branches. And then something strange happens. The room goes quiet—not really, but it feels that way. Mother's crying becomes distant. Father's breathing fades. The clock's ticking slows. I stare at the woman in white. She's still talking, but I can't hear her words. I only see her eyes. They look… sad. I don't know what that means. The woman in white stops talking and looks at Mother. "Elara," she says softly, "I know this is difficult to hear." Mother lowers her hand from her mouth. Her lips are pale. "What… what's wrong with him?"
"There's nothing wrong with him," the woman says quickly, but Father snorts—a sharp, angry sound—and she hesitates. "Gael shows signs of a condition called Alexithymia. It means… he has difficulty recognizing and expressing emotions. His own and others." Mother blinks at her. "I don't—" "It's why he doesn't cry," the woman continues gently. "Or smile. Or call for you. He isn't choosing not to—he simply doesn't process feelings the way most children do." "Doesn't… process feelings?" Father repeats. He sounds like the words taste bad in his mouth. The woman nods. "He can see the world around him. He can think. He can learn. But emotions—what you or I feel naturally—he might never truly experience them the way we do." Mother makes a small, broken sound. Her arms tighten so much I can barely breathe. Father asks, voice rough, "So what does that mean for his future?" The woman pauses. She looks at me. Her eyes are soft now, like the fabric on the chair behind her. "It means," she says, "that life will be very… different for him. For all of you." No one talks after that. Mother presses her face into my hair and starts to cry again. Father's hands curl into fists at his sides. The woman writes something on her paper and closes the folder with a soft thud. I look back at the clock. It hasn't stopped. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The woman in white stands. "I'll give you a moment," she says softly. She opens the door and steps out, leaving it slightly ajar. The room feels bigger without her, but not quieter. Mother's crying fills it. Father's breathing scrapes the air. He moves first. He picks up his jacket from the back of his chair and shoves his arms into it. "Come on," he mutters. His voice is tight, stretched thin like a rope ready to snap. Mother doesn't move right away. She buries her face in my hair one last time, then lifts her head and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. She stands, holding me on her hip. I let her, though I could walk on my own. Father opens the door wider. The hallway outside smells like coffee and something sweet. A nurse at the counter looks up as we pass. Her smile fades when she sees Mother's face.
Mother keeps her eyes on the floor. Father doesn't look at anyone. The waiting room is full of people. A little boy sits on the floor with blocks, building a tower. His mother claps when he makes it tall. He laughs, high and bright, and I feel the sound in my chest like a vibration. Mother flinches. She holds me tighter, almost too tight, and walks faster. Someone whispers as we pass. "Poor kid," maybe. Or maybe, "poor parents." I can't tell. The glass doors slide open with a hiss. Outside smells different—wet pavement, car exhaust, the faint bite of cold air. Father presses a button on the key fob. Our car chirps. He opens the back door for Mother, who straps me into my seat. She fumbles with the buckle, hands shaking. One of her tears falls on my shirt again. I watch it soak in. Father slams his door shut when he gets in. The sound is loud, sharp. I blink once, slowly. No one speaks as the car starts.