The next few days passed in a quiet blur. Lian couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was changing inside him, but the more he thought about it, the less sure he became. He had started to see things differently, but what did that even mean? Was it his mind, or was it the world itself that was shifting?
He spent his mornings walking to school, the air colder now, the sky graying with the promise of more winter. Every day, he passed the same streets, the same houses, and yet today, they seemed unfamiliar, as if they had shifted into something he hadn't noticed before. Were the trees always this bare? Was that crack in the sidewalk always there? He couldn't remember.
And then there were the people. He caught glimpses of their animal forms, but they didn't feel as solid as before. They were becoming like shadows—flickering, fading, then reappearing in strange, unexpected ways. He wasn't sure whether he was seeing them for what they truly were, or if the animals he saw were simply projections of his mind.
That afternoon, after school, Lian found himself walking through the park. It was mostly empty, save for a few older people walking their dogs, and he took his time, letting his thoughts settle.
He was still thinking about the fox girl. He hadn't seen her since that day in English class. Her words echoed in his mind—"You're not the only one."
Was she talking about people who could see like him? Or something else entirely? He didn't know, but the idea of others like him, others who understood the shifting world, felt both comforting and unsettling. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that kind of connection.
He wandered deeper into the park, past the rows of benches and overgrown paths. There was a small pond, mostly frozen over now, and he stopped to stare at the ice. Beneath the surface, shadows moved—just out of reach, always there but never truly seen.
The wind picked up, rustling the trees, and Lian felt something brush against his mind—an instinct, like an echo, a presence. He turned slowly, and there, standing at the edge of the pond, was the fox girl.
She didn't look at him directly, but he could feel her presence like a weight in the air.
"You came," she said, her voice soft, almost like it was meant for the wind and not him. She didn't sound surprised.
"I… I wanted to know," Lian said, his voice trailing off. "Who are you?"
The fox girl finally turned to him. Her eyes were dark, deep. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.
"I'm someone who's seen," she replied simply.
Lian swallowed. "Seen what?"
"Everything," she said. "Or maybe nothing at all. It depends on how you look at it."
Lian took a step closer, but she didn't move.
"Do you… Do you know why I see things?" he asked, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "What's happening to me?"
The fox girl's eyes flickered, a brief spark of recognition. "You've been taught to see, but not how to understand."
Lian frowned. "What do you mean?"
She tilted her head slightly, like she was studying him. "You see people as animals. But animals are only part of the story. They're not the truth, Lian. They're only the surface."
"But I—"
"You only see what you want to see," she interrupted. "What you need to see. It's not about them. It's about you."
Lian felt a strange weight settle on his chest, something like a revelation, but he couldn't quite grasp it. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn't come.
She turned her gaze back to the pond, and for a moment, Lian didn't know what to do. The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
"I've been waiting for you to understand," she said after a long pause.
"For what?"
She glanced at him again, her expression unreadable. "For you to stop seeing things as they are, and start seeing them for what they could be."
Lian didn't know how to respond. He stared at her, trying to understand the weight of her words, but all he felt was confusion.
She stepped back, her figure slowly fading into the mist that hung low over the pond. "I'll see you again, Lian. When you're ready."
And with that, she was gone.
The walk home felt different. Lian's mind raced, but there were no answers—only more questions, like the ones he couldn't quite form. What was she talking about? What did she want him to understand?
As he reached his street, he noticed something strange. It was subtle at first—a shift in the way the houses stood, the way the trees bent. It was like he had walked into a painting that was still being painted, the edges uncertain, the world not fully realized.
He didn't know if it was his mind playing tricks or if something in the air had actually changed, but the world around him felt… thinner.
And then he saw it.
At the end of the street, by the old oak tree, his father was standing alone. He hadn't been there earlier when Lian had walked past. But now, there he was, staring at something Lian couldn't see.
Lian's stomach clenched. His father hadn't looked at him in days. Hadn't spoken.
But now… now his father was waiting. Waiting for something.
Lian felt a strange pull in his chest. He stood frozen for a moment before he started walking toward him, his footsteps slow but sure.
By the time he reached his father, Lian wasn't sure what to say. He felt the distance between them—thick and tangled, like the vines in the park. But this time, he didn't see his father as a man. Not as a shadow.
He saw him as an animal—a bear, worn and tired, but still strong.
And for the first time, Lian understood that animals weren't just what he saw. They were what he needed to see. What he was willing to see.
His father turned to him, and for a moment, their gazes locked. The words between them didn't need to be spoken.
And that, for Lian, was the beginning of something new.