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It bears repeating, Time thinks, that they didn't know what was wrong with Wind.
They knew something was up with him. Anyone who spent half a day with the boy would realize that. And it wasn't any personal failure on Wind's part, he was about as plucky and gung-ho as young boys came. What was 'wrong with him' was not an issue of the spirit or the self, but of the body and mind. Mostly the body.
Wind never brought it up. He'd only stopped trying to hide most of his oddities after a few weeks with the other heroes, and he'd clammed right back up every time a new member joined their group. Even being his honest self, living with the group without concealing his struggles and his differences, he didn't talk about them. Nobody really knew how to start that particular conversation, and so they all mostly let it be.
But there was something wrong with him. Be it a curse or a natural-born illness, he wasn't quite right. For all his general good cheer he was temperamental, and sometimes even seemed to surprise himself with his own emotions. He had a hard time keeping thoughts to himself, which had led to any number of awkward conversations and bruised egos alike- though Time would admit that could just be the boy's personality. He struggled with speech- his syllables got mixed up with one another, coming out in mismatched combinations. He couldn't easily get words out of his throat where they seemed to stubbornly dig in their heels, causing him to screw up his face and spit them out with great effort. His coordination was more or less acceptable, he handled his bow and his boomerang well enough, he was a delight with his grappling hook and hookshot. On the other hand, his balance seemed impaired. He had a habit of looking down at his feet while walking, and what had at first seemed like a strange insistence on ruining his own posture was soon understood to be a necessary measure to prevent Wind from falling over every other step.
By and large, he was alright. He had some issues, but they didn't hold him back most of the time. Most of his days were good days, or at least okay days.
His bad days were... bad. His balance degraded to a state of vertigo, even with support his body seemed determined to sway and topple like a poorly constructed tower. He suffered terrible bouts of nausea and couldn't eat even dry crackers without throwing them up. His mood was, reasonably, foul and volatile. He confused dreams and memories with reality, becoming difficult to understand when he spoke.
And, as Time thinks bears repeating, they didn't know what was wrong with him. They only knew that something was.