They were practicing presentations in English class. Each student had to stand in front of the room and explain a poem they chose. Lian hated it—being watched, judged, expected to sound smart about feelings he barely understood.
He had picked a quiet poem. One about rivers and shadows. No one paid much attention when he walked up.
He started reading.
Midway through, he saw it.
On the edge of his vision, behind Sarah's eyes: feathers, not bright or proud, but molting. A tired crow, wings tucked in.
Lian blinked. It was the first time in days he'd seen something.
He stumbled on a line. Ms. Kwan prompted him gently.
He finished, sat down.
His hands were cold. Not from fear.
From the memory of that glimpse.
Later, in the hallway, Sarah caught up with him.
"Hey. Your poem thing? I liked it. It sounded... real."
Lian looked at her, searching for the bird again.
Nothing.
"Thanks," he said, unsure if she meant it.
She hesitated. "People don't always say what they mean. But I think you do. Even when it's quiet."
She walked off, braid swinging behind her like a tail.
Lian didn't try to name her animal. He just let the silence echo.
That afternoon, Mr. Arman found him shelving books without being asked.
"You've been quiet lately," he said.
"I've been... watching," Lian answered.
"Seeing?"
Lian shrugged. "Not like before. It's different."
Mr. Arman pulled a book from the shelf. Not one of the special ones. Just a novel. He flipped through it absently.
"You remember what I said? About the mirror?"
Lian nodded.
"It reflects. But only if you look long enough."
Lian tilted his head. "So it's not about what I see. It's about how I stay?"
Mr. Arman smiled faintly. "You're learning to stay."
That night, at dinner, his father asked him to pass the rice. His voice wasn't angry. Just tired.
Lian did, quietly.
His mother looked at both of them. Said nothing. But her eyes lingered.
For the first time, Lian didn't try to read either of them.
He just passed the rice. Took a bite. Listened to the sounds of the room.
Noticed the softest thing.
They were all trying.
He sat in bed later, notebook closed beside him. No animals drawn. No shapes hovering.
But he remembered the crow in Sarah. The flicker of it. The way it matched the way she twisted her fingers when she spoke.
He picked up his pencil.
"Maybe the animals come when we're afraid to be people."
He paused.
Then added:
"And maybe they go when we're ready to try."