Lune's return to school was scheduled like a procedure.
His parents walked him to the classroom door, their movements careful, as if sudden gestures might undo weeks of preparation. Ms. Han waited inside, her posture stiff but her smile deliberate.
"Good morning, Lune," she said, drawing his name out slightly. "We're happy to have you back."
Lune smiled.
Not the wide smile he had practiced first. The smaller one. The one that made adults lean in instead of stepping back.
Ms. Han's shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly.
The classroom felt different now. Not physically—desks still scratched, floor still marked with tape—but socially. Eyes followed him as he walked to his seat. Whispers moved like static through the room.
Lune sat down carefully, aligning his books, keeping his hands visible. He had learned that visible hands reassured people.
Throughout the morning, teachers hovered. Ms. Han checked on him more often than necessary, asking simple questions with layered meaning.
"How are you feeling today?"
"Are you enjoying your drawing?"
"Do you need help with that?"
Lune answered each one with the appropriate tone, matching eye contact to content. He nodded when nodding was expected. He thanked when thanked was required.
At recess, he remained seated on a bench near the fence. Ms. Han pretended to supervise the entire playground while actually watching him.
A boy approached hesitantly, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Do you want to play?" the boy asked.
Lune assessed quickly. Invitation meant expectation. Declining required explanation.
"Yes," he said, standing smoothly. "Thank you for asking."
The boy blinked, surprised by the politeness, then smiled.
They kicked a ball back and forth. Lune watched the boy's face closely, noting how laughter appeared when the ball missed badly, how frustration creased his brow when it rolled too far.
When the boy tripped, Lune reacted immediately.
"Oh," he said softly, stepping closer but not touching. "Are you okay?"
The boy looked up, startled. Then he nodded. "Yeah."
Ms. Han's breath released audibly from across the yard.
At lunch, Lune said sorry when someone bumped his tray. He waited the correct amount of time before speaking. He smiled at the right moments. He mirrored concern when others complained.
The adults relaxed.
By the end of the day, Ms. Han knelt beside his desk, her voice warm. "You did very well today, Lune. I'm proud of you."
Proud. Another reward word.
Lune smiled again, smaller this time. Controlled.
At pickup, Ms. Han spoke quietly to his parents. "He was wonderful. So calm. So considerate."
His mother's eyes shone. His father nodded, tension easing from his posture.
Lune listened from a distance, already processing the feedback. Calm. Considerate. Words that meant acceptable.
That evening, another star appeared on the chart.
Lune stood in front of the refrigerator and studied the growing pattern. The system was working exactly as predicted. He understood something crucial then—not with fear or excitement, but clarity.
The adults believed the performance. And because they believed it, they were already lowering their guard.