What He Could Mimic

Chapter 7: The Gift

The gardening reached its conclusion, and the rest of the day drifted by, much like those that had come before. If there were anything of note, it was that the parents were in a radiant mood, possessed by a boundless and infectious joy. Naturally, the boy studied their expressions, taking mental notes on the mechanics of a smile—data he would later apply during his daily practice before the mirror.

Once positioned before the glass, he continued his usual exercises. He caught a flicker of change in his reflection. It was minute—slight enough to be dismissed as a trick of the light—but his powers of observation, sharpened ever since his curiosity regarding human expression took hold, told him otherwise: the corners of his mouth were, in fact, attempting to curve.

Satisfied with this progress, he bid his parents goodnight and went to sleep. For their part, the parents continued to radiate happiness, chatting softly while the television murmured the evening news in the background.

Sunday arrived, and the family rose earlier than the day before to enjoy a peaceful breakfast. Afterward, the boy played with his usual blocks while his parents sat nearby. Watching his quiet way of entertaining himself, they couldn’t help but feel a surge of gratitude for their son’s calm pastimes.

After a while, they reminded him it was time to check the plants. He stood immediately, tidied his toys, and followed them to the front garden. It was impossible for them not to feel a twinge of tenderness, watching him clean up with such unwavering gravity.

Their task in the front yard was to check the soil moisture where the flowers were planted, following the instructions they had noted on plant care. Being complete novices, they had been told that simply burying the index finger up to the first knuckle was enough to test the earth. Water was only necessary if the soil felt dry, and even then, only until moist—never soaked, and certainly never to the point of forming a puddle.

Deciding this was a fine way for him to interact with nature, they suggested their son try it himself. His fingers were smaller, of course, so they decided he should use the entirety of his first digit, pointing out exactly where that was on his hand.

Furthermore, given his history of struggling with anything not explained in literal terms, they found a patch of damp earth and another of dry. They had him feel both, ensuring he truly understood how to recognize the difference.

Having learned the lesson, the boy began pressing his fingers into the soil—both around the old plants that predated their move and the ones they had planted the day before. Each time, his parents verified his findings and gave their approval; the boy would then take the watering can and carefully pour.

It had to be done this way. According to the clerk at the garden center, it wasn’t just that the roots needed the water, but that wetting the leaves directly could invite the growth of fungi. Special care was also required for the ungerminated seeds; a heavy hand or an excessive stream of water risked washing them out of place.

As the task became mechanical, the parents found themselves studying their son’s face from the close vantage point. They had grown accustomed to his lack of gestures, yet over the last few days, they had begun to perceive slight shifts in his features. They weren’t sure if these nuances had always been there—unseen by their own lack of perception—or if they were signs of a delayed development.

This realization led them to wonder: when exactly had he lost his expressions? It hadn’t always been like this. They could still recall him crying like any other newborn, or laughing boisterously at funny faces during his infancy.

After a few more plants, they decided to trust his judgment and let him finish the rest on his own. They used the time to exchange whispered memories, searching for the most recent image of their son laughing. However, they had to stop before finding an answer, as he was already finishing his assigned task.

They watched him until he was done, waited for him to turn toward them, and praised him for his good work. They had been worried, searching their memories for clues to solve the mystery of his missing emotions. Yet, seeing that smile—the one that seemed to be fighting to form—they felt that somehow, everything would be alright. For now, they would simply enjoy their time with him, hoping that the expression developing day by day would eventually bloom into a brilliant smile. With their minds eased by these thoughts, they reminded him to wash his hands before returning to his blocks.

The hours passed without event—a typical day of rest ending with a boy practicing before a mirror and parents comparing memories, trying to pinpoint the moment their son lost his way.

They did not know that no such moment existed. There was no single event that had altered his soul; his condition was not the result of trauma or anything of the sort. Instead, there had been a slow, constant erosion of his social capacities—specifically in how he felt and projected emotion. It was so gradual, so rhythmic, that there was no “exact point” to find. It had been quiet enough to go unnoticed.

Regardless of whether the parents would make a discovery or if the boy would progress on his own before a larger problem arose, those concerns had to wait. A new week was beginning, bringing with it fresh opportunities for his “training.”

Monday arrived, and the first opportunity came sooner than expected. During recess, a classmate called out to him, approached, and handed him something. “This is for your parents,” the boy said, before dashing off.

It was a small card featuring a colorful character he didn’t recognize. He opened it, but the contents were meaningless; he couldn’t read. He closed the invitation, went to the classroom to tuck it into his backpack, and returned to the playground.

When school ended, he met his mother. Before taking her hand, he remembered the card and handed it over before it slipped his mind. She looked at it and smiled—a smile large enough for both of them. She was thrilled; this was the first birthday party outside their family circle that her son had been invited to.

He watched her with curiosity. She explained it was an invitation to celebrate a classmate’s fourth birthday, comparing it to the family parties they usually attended. He didn’t remember much about those events, though the memory of being allowed to eat sweets and cake remained vivid.

These thoughts were interrupted when his mother asked what the birthday boy liked so they could choose a gift. He went silent, thinking. Seeing that no answer was forthcoming, she prompted him: “Think about the toys he usually plays with.”

He searched his memory again. Just as they reached the front door, he spoke: “Monster trucks.”

He was lucky this particular classmate was extroverted and loud—enough so to talk incessantly about how “cool” they were. He couldn’t recall a specific brand or name, only that the boy spent most of recess talking about them and a certain TV show he couldn’t name.

That single phrase was enough for his mother. She was satisfied with a clear answer, especially after seeing him put so much effort into answering an unprepared question.

Inside, she headed to the kitchen to finish lunch. He went straight to his room, left his backpack by the bed, and returned to the living room to spend time with his blocks, never once glancing at the television.

It might have seemed strange, but he had never watched children’s programming. He knew what TV was from seeing his parents watch the news, and it wasn’t that he was strictly forbidden from it. As first-time parents, they simply wanted to avoid it, fearing it might be bad for his development—though they wouldn’t have minded a moderate amount.

Their worries had proven unnecessary; he had never shown the slightest interest. Furthermore, because he was so quiet, they never had to use the “electronic babysitter” to prevent a tantrum. In fact, they had no memory of him ever throwing a fit since he was a baby.

Ironically, had he watched those shows, he surely would have recognized the character on the invitation.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. It was the father, home for his break. He arrived just in time for lunch, greeted his son with a hug, and sat down at the freshly set table. During the meal, the mother showed him the invitation, and the atmosphere became even more animated than usual. They spent the time after the meal making plans to go out that afternoon to buy the gift…

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