The weather turned colder that week. Not sharp-cold, just the kind that made you wear a jacket without thinking. Lian didn't mind. The chill quieted the world.
He noticed things more when people weren't so loud—how Ms. Donnelly's hands trembled slightly when she passed out quizzes, how the boy who always ran in gym now walked with a limp he tried to hide, how Jamie kept looking at her phone during lunch and smiled only when no one was watching.
He kept his sketchbook closed lately.
Not because he didn't want to see—but because he already had. Enough to last a while.
On Wednesday, he stayed after school again, this time not wandering. Just sitting at the window by the library, where the heater clicked every few minutes and the glass fogged in slow circles.
Across the quad, he saw Mr. Arman walk by with a box in his arms. Paper scraps fluttered from the top—some falling behind like breadcrumbs. Lian didn't go after them.
He just watched.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Jamie stood there, a book in her hand—not one for class, just something old and thick with a broken spine.
"You always sit here?" she asked.
He shrugged.
She sat beside him without waiting for an answer, opened the book, and started reading. Not aloud. Just reading. Her shoulder close enough that he could feel the quiet she brought with her.
A long time passed.
That night, he walked through the neighborhood with no destination. A dog barked at nothing behind a fence. Leaves skittered across the pavement like dry insects.
In the small grocery store near the corner, he bought a carton of milk and stood in line behind a man with tired shoes. The cashier didn't look up when she said thank you.
On the way home, he paused by the community center. Someone inside was playing piano—not well, not badly. Just playing.
He stood by the window and listened until the notes stopped. Then he walked the rest of the way without looking at his reflection in the puddles.
Back home, his mother had fallen asleep on the couch, a half-finished bowl of rice on the coffee table beside her. The TV played quietly—some drama she didn't understand but kept on anyway, like background music for thoughts she never said aloud.
Lian covered her with a blanket and turned off the lamp. He didn't need the light.
He sat down at the table and opened his journal.
No sketches. No lists.
He just wrote a few lines:
Some things shift. Some things don't.
The trick is learning which is which.
Then he added nothing more.
He didn't need to.