I used to think I understood silence.
When you grow up with a brother like Keane, you learn to read what most people never notice.
A flicker in the eyes. A jaw tightening. Pencils lined up by color and length before homework starts.
You learn patience too.
Or at least, you learn how to look patient while quietly surviving.
Keane was diagnosed when he was three.
I was six.
And after that, our house didn’t just get quieter.
It got heavier.
Keane didn’t change. He stayed gentle. Withdrawn. Sometimes smiling at spinning ceiling fans or drifting clouds.
But he didn’t speak.
Not then. Not really for a long time.
Until one Tuesday… he did.
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