The streetlights buzzed faintly overhead as Lian walked between his parents. None of them spoke.
The poetry showcase had ended an hour ago, but the applause still rang faintly in his ears, like an echo you carry long after the sound fades.
His mother walked on his left, a thin scarf pulled tight around her shoulders. His father kept pace on the right, hands in his coat pockets, eyes forward. Their footsteps were slightly out of sync, but something about that felt honest.
Not broken.
Just different.
Lian clutched the folded paper in his jacket. Not the poem he'd read, but the one he hadn't shared—the one he'd written last night. A letter, addressed to his mother. In her language.
He hadn't meant to write it. The words had come on their own.
As they reached the apartment, his father unlocked the door without a word. His mother disappeared into the kitchen, setting down her bag, already reaching for the kettle. His father sank into the couch and rubbed his face with both hands.
Lian lingered at the threshold of the living room.
"I wrote something," he said, voice low. "For you. For 妈妈."
His father looked up slowly. "Yeah?"
Lian hesitated. "It's in Chinese. I'll give it to her later."
His father nodded. "I'm glad you're writing."
Lian looked at him. "You don't have to say that if you don't mean it."
"I mean it," his father said. He stood. His voice didn't shake. "I don't know how to say everything right. But I'm trying to hear it."
They stood there for a moment—Lian and his father, in a room that had held too many translations and not enough truths.
Then his father said, "You did good today."
Lian swallowed.
"Thanks," he whispered.
That night, after the lights were off and the street outside had gone quiet, Lian lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The silence didn't feel empty.
It felt soft.
It reminded him of something his mother used to say when he was younger, before he had the words to understand:"Silence is not nothing. It's where everything rests."
He thought about all the times he had twisted her words when translating. Sometimes out of anger. Sometimes just to make them easier. Gentler. Or sharper.
Now he wished he'd told the truth more often.
But maybe he still could.
In the morning, he placed the folded letter on the kitchen table.
His mother was cooking congee, her back to him.
She didn't notice it until he left for school. He didn't wait to see her reaction. He didn't need to.
On the bus, Lian sat by the window, fingers cold against the glass. The town looked different now. Not brighter. But less distant.
He didn't see animals in the other kids. Not today. No tails twitching. No wings beating. Just slumped shoulders, laughter, earbuds, quiet glances.
He saw people.
He closed his eyes and let the rhythm of the ride rock him gently forward.
Toward something else.
Not quite an ending.
Not quite a beginning.
Just a moment that felt true.