The hallway closet near the counselor's office had always been jammed shut. No one used it. Too small for storage, too big to ignore. Today, it was open.
Lian wasn't sure why he stopped.
He was supposed to be on his way to make-up math tutoring. But something—something in the way the light hit the floor—drew him in.
The closet was dim, lit only by a flickering bulb overhead. A broken mirror leaned against the wall, spider-webbed with cracks. Mops, old textbooks, a forgotten hoodie.
But the air inside felt... expectant.
He stepped in.
And for a moment, he wasn't in the school anymore.
He was in his old room in China, small and echoing, the one with the cracked window and the loud neighbors. He heard his mother crying through the thin walls. He remembered holding his breath so he wouldn't make a sound. Remembered wanting to disappear.
Then the image shifted.
Now it was the living room, last winter, when his father shouted about the thermostat and his mother answered in the wrong words, and Lian stood between them like a dam made of paper.
The spider was there.
Not real—but vivid.
It crouched in the corner of the ceiling, unmoving, its legs folded inward. Not monstrous. Not even watching. Just… present.
Lian stepped closer.
In the silence, he whispered, "What are you protecting?"
The spider didn't answer. But it didn't vanish either.
And somehow, that meant something.
Later that evening, his father knocked on his door. Lian didn't answer, but his father came in anyway.
"I made too much dinner," he said, voice awkward. "Thought you might want some."
Lian didn't look at him. "Did you mean it? That you want to try?"
"Yes," his father said. "But I know I've said that before."
Lian finally turned to him. "You don't get to erase everything just by trying."
"I'm not trying to erase anything," his father said, quieter. "I'm trying to start where I should've years ago."
They sat in silence.
Finally, Lian said, "Then start here."
That night, Lian dreamed again.
Not of animals.
Of people.
Jamie laughing on a swing.
Mr. Arman shelving books with tired hands.
His mother alone in a kitchen, humming a song no one else knew.
And himself.
In the center of a circle of mirrors—none of them showing animals anymore. Just him, in pieces. Crying. Smiling. Silent. Loud. Afraid. Brave.
He woke up with tears on his face, and for once, didn't wipe them away.
In the morning, he opened his notebook and didn't draw or write.
He just touched the page.
Blank.
Ready.