The mirror was taller than Lune, mounted on the inside of the wardrobe door.
When his mother first brought him into the bedroom and opened it, the glass caught the light from the window and flared briefly, like a second room appearing where there shouldn't be one. Lune stepped closer, curious. The boy in the reflection stepped closer too.
"Look," his mother said gently, kneeling beside him. "That's you."
Lune already knew that. He watched the reflection tilt its head when he did, watched its eyes blink when his blinked. It followed rules. That made it useful.
His mother pointed at his face. "We're going to practice something together, okay?"
Lune nodded.
She demonstrated first. Her lips curved upward, slow and deliberate. The movement pulled the skin near her eyes into soft lines.
"This is a smile," she said. "People like this."
Lune studied the mechanics carefully. The symmetry. The amount of lift. The way her cheeks rounded.
"Try," she encouraged.
He raised the corners of his mouth. Too little. The reflection looked wrong—flat, unfinished.
"That's okay," she said quickly. "A bit more."
He adjusted, lifting higher. This time, her breath caught slightly.
There it was. A reaction.
"Good," she said. "That's very good, Lune."
Warmth entered her voice, subtle but unmistakable. It was different from approval. Softer. Closer.
Lune held the smile in place and watched the effect ripple outward. His mother's shoulders relaxed. Her eyes shone. She reached out and touched his arm, light and careful, as if approaching something fragile.
The connection was immediate. They practiced every evening after that.
Sad faces. Apologetic faces. Concerned faces. His parents took turns demonstrating, correcting him gently when his expressions were too sharp or delayed. They taught him where to soften his eyes, how long to hold a look, when to lower his gaze.
"Not too much," his father would say when Lune exaggerated. "You don't want to look fake."
Fake. An interesting word.
"What does fake look like?" Lune asked once.
His parents exchanged a glance. His mother answered, slowly. "Like you're trying too hard."
Lune nodded and adjusted.
He learned that timing mattered as much as shape. That smiling too quickly seemed rehearsed. That smiling too late felt cold. That people preferred something that looked effortless—even if it wasn't.
When he smiled correctly, things changed.
His mother lingered longer in the room. His father spoke more easily, his voice losing its edge. The charts on the refrigerator filled faster. Stars appeared without explanation.
Expressions, Lune realized, were keys.
One night, after a particularly successful practice session, his mother hugged him without prompting. The contact was brief but real. Her arms tightened slightly, then released.
Lune stood still while it happened, watching the mirror over her shoulder. The reflection showed a child being hugged. It looked convincing.
He did not feel comfort. But he understood the value of the action.
Later, alone in his room, Lune opened the wardrobe door and faced the mirror again. He practiced without instruction now, testing variations. Softer smile. Smaller smile. Smile without eyes. Eyes without smile.
He discovered that one version worked better than the others. It wasn't wide. It wasn't obvious. It suggested warmth without demanding attention.
When he used it the next morning, his mother paused in the doorway, watching him with something close to relief.
"There," she said quietly to his father. "See? He's learning."
Lune watched their reflections behind him.
He held the smile.
And for the first time, he understood that faces were not reflections of feeling—they were tools for controlling what others felt.
The smile worked. Too well.