The hospital looked the same as it always had.
White corridors. Soft shoes squeaking faintly against polished floors. The smell of antiseptic layered beneath something floral, as if cleanliness alone might be too honest. Lune walked between his parents, their hands hovering near his shoulders without quite touching him.
They were nervous.
Lune noted it with mild interest.
Dr. Liao greeted them with the same gentle smile she always used. It had not changed, but the meaning behind it had. Where once there had been scrutiny, now there was reassurance—relief, even.
"Lune," she said warmly. "It's good to see you again."
Lune smiled back. Not the smallest one. Not the brightest. The calibrated middle.
"How have you been?" she asked.
"Good," Lune replied. He added, after the appropriate pause, "I've been trying very hard."
His mother's hand tightened on his shoulder.
Dr. Liao nodded approvingly and ushered them into the familiar conference room. The same beige walls. The same box of tissues. The same chairs arranged to suggest equality without actually offering it.
The man with the wire-rimmed glasses was there again. He skimmed through a folder as they sat, pages whispering softly.
"We've reviewed Lune's reports," he said. "Teacher feedback. Behavioral observations. Home notes."
Lune watched his pen. It moved more quickly now. Confidently.
"Overall," the man continued, "we're very pleased."
Pleased was a strong word. Lune registered the subtle release in his parents' posture as it landed.
"Lune demonstrates improved emotional regulation," Dr. Liao added. "He anticipates social expectations. He responds appropriately to distress."
Lune nodded once, as if acknowledging a compliment that belonged to someone else.
His father cleared his throat. "So… this is good?"
"Yes," the man said. "Very good. These are strong indicators of adaptation."
Adaptation. Lune liked that word. It implied success without demanding sincerity.
Dr. Liao turned to him directly. "How do you feel about things, Lune?"
He met her gaze and mirrored the concern he saw there, softened with humility. "I like it when people are comfortable," he said. "I don't want to upset anyone."
The sentence earned him a smile. A real one.
"That shows insight," she said.
His mother exhaled, long and slow, as if she had been holding her breath for months.
They spoke for a while longer, but the tension was gone now. Words like monitor and check-in replaced evaluate and concern. The future was framed gently, optimistically.
"We'll reduce the frequency of visits," the man said. "There's no need to medicalize what's clearly being managed well at home."
Managed.
Lune watched his parents' faces light up at that. They wanted this ending. They wanted the story to resolve neatly.
When the appointment ended, Dr. Liao bent slightly toward him. "You've done very well," she said quietly. "Keep being thoughtful."
Thoughtful. The word followed him down the corridor like a blessing.
In the elevator, his mother hugged him tightly, this time without fear. "I knew it," she said into his hair. "I knew you were just… different in a good way."
His father smiled at him, pride unguarded. "You proved them wrong," he said.
Lune stood between them, calm and composed, feeling nothing shift inside him at all.
As the elevator doors opened, he understood something clearly.
The institution was satisfied.
And once institutions were satisfied, they stopped asking questions.