Across the table, my thoughts drifted back to that winter.Most of my twenty years had been spent in a psychiatric hospital. As a child with autism, I was like a sealed jar—silent, unresponsive, and nearly indistinguishable from someone who couldn’t speak at all.Even though I knew there was a brother who would visit me, no matter how gently he spoke or how patiently he tried, I remained unmoved.“Many children with autism retreat into their own worlds,” I overheard a nurse explain once. “They’re indifferent to everything around them, emotionally distant, and often have no memory of past events.”The man who came to see me—a man I later came to know as my brother—pulled the corners of his lips into a small, tired smile and sighed.“What a pity. Autistic yet blessed with such beauty. Still, I won’t give up on her.”At the time, I didn’t understand the complexity of his expression. Later, when I grew older, I realized that it was a mix of fondness and twisted pleasure.My brother was we
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