The charts appeared two days later.
They were taped neatly to the refrigerator, color-coded and laminated. Smiley faces. Stars. Checkboxes. Each category was written in careful block letters: Listening, Sharing, Appropriate Reactions.
Lune stood in front of the fridge and read them silently while his parents hovered behind him, uncertain.
"This is just to help us all stay consistent," his mother said, too brightly. Her voice carried the strain of someone trying to sound normal while standing on unfamiliar ground. "It's not a punishment system."
His father cleared his throat. "It's about expectations," he added. "Clear ones."
Lune nodded. He liked clarity.
They explained the rules carefully. If Lune behaved correctly, he earned points. Points could be exchanged for privileges: extra reading time, a trip to the park, screen access. If he behaved incorrectly, privileges were removed. Calmly. Predictably. No yelling.
No affection was mentioned.
Lune noticed that immediately.
The first test came that evening.
At dinner, his mother dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the plate, the sound sharp and sudden. She flinched instinctively, then laughed it off, embarrassed.
"Oh dear," she said. "I'm clumsy today."
Lune watched her face. He recognized the cue. People expected something here. Concern. Reassurance.
"I'm sorry," he said, using the tone Dr. Liao had praised.
His mother froze for half a second, then smiled. A real smile this time, fragile but genuine.
"Thank you, Lune," she said.
A star appeared on the chart later that night. Lune understood then.
This was not about right or wrong. It was about cause and effect. About rewards and removals. The system did not care what he felt, only what he did.
That made sense.
Over the next week, he tested the boundaries carefully. Small deviations. A delayed response. A missed "sorry." Each time, the outcome was immediate and calm. A privilege removed. A checkmark withheld.
No anger. No shouting. No confusion.
Punishment, he realized, was not emotional. It was mechanical.
He adjusted quickly.
He learned that eye contact mattered. That silence was sometimes wrong and sometimes praised. That adults preferred moderation—too much concern was suspicious, too little was cold.
At night, lying in bed, he replayed the day like a sequence of inputs and outputs. He refined his approach. He improved his efficiency.
His parents watched him closely, mistaking his compliance for progress.
One evening, his father knelt beside his bed. The gesture was stiff, rehearsed.
"You're doing really well," his father said. "We're proud of you."
Lune studied his face. The pride was real. The fear was still there, buried deeper now.
"Thank you," Lune said.
The response earned him another star the next morning.
As days passed, the charts filled. The routine settled. The house grew quieter, more controlled. Affection was replaced with approval. Praise substituted for comfort.
Lune did not miss what he had never needed.
Standing in front of the refrigerator one morning, he traced the pattern of stars with his eyes. The system was elegant. Predictable. Safe.
He understood something important then.
Rules were not moral. Rules were tools.
And once you understood the pattern, you could follow it perfectly. Or you could break it—very carefully—and know exactly what would happen next.