The hospital corridors were brighter than the school corridor, but the brightness felt different.
At school, light came from windows and the soft humming panels above the classroom. Here, it came from rows of fluorescent tubes that erased shadows instead of softening them. Everything was pale. Everything reflected. Even the air smelled polished, as if scent itself had been cleaned.
Lune sat in an observation room with walls the color of paper and a window that was too dark to be a window. The glass on the far wall showed his reflection faintly when he moved.
A basket of toys sat in the corner: plastic blocks, a stuffed bear, a toy car with missing paint. The arrangement looked deliberate, like a staged photograph of childhood. Lune did not reach for any of it.
He watched his own face in the glass.
The reflection was imperfect. It blurred at the edges. When he tilted his head, the image tilted back. When he blinked, it blinked too. It was obedient. It did not cry. It did not demand anything.
He liked that.
His mother sat beside him, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were pale. She kept glancing at him, then away, then back again, as if he were a stranger who had appeared wearing her child's skin. His father stood near the door, arms crossed. His foot tapped once, then stopped, as if he had remembered tapping would be noticed.
A knock came. The door opened softly.
A woman entered carrying a clipboard. She was dressed in plain clothes, not a white coat, but there was something clinical in the way she moved—efficient, measured, polite.
"Hello," she said, smiling. Her smile was small and practiced, the kind that told the other person they were safe without promising anything. "I'm Dr. Liao. Thank you for coming in."
Lune watched her eyes. Warm. Controlled. The smile did not reach them fully.
Dr. Liao crouched slightly, bringing her face closer to his level but not too close. She respected distance. Some adults did. Others didn't. She held her pen loosely, as if it were not a weapon.
"Hi, Lune," she said. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"
Lune nodded.
His mother leaned forward. "He's—he's normally very good. He's quiet. He's—" She stopped, swallowing words that might sound like excuses.
Dr. Liao glanced at her, still smiling gently. "I understand. We're just here to learn a little more. There's no blame. We're not here to punish anyone."
Punish. Lune's eyes flicked to the clipboard. He listened for what wasn't said: We're here to label.
Dr. Liao turned back to him. "Lune, do you know why you're here today?"
"Yes," Lune said.
"Why?" she asked.
Lune paused, because he was considering which answer would be most useful. "Because I made the girl cry."