The morning was colder than usual. Frost had crept along the windowpane overnight, drawing delicate patterns like lace.
Lian sat at the kitchen table, tracing the edge of the small tin Wáng āyí had given his mother weeks ago. It was empty now—only the scent of spices remained, faint but stubborn.
His mother moved quietly around the room, preparing breakfast with the same careful rhythm. No words were spoken, but the silence between them wasn't empty. It was full — of memories, hopes, and things they didn't yet know how to say.
Lian thought about his father, who had been distant these past days. His usual half-hearted attempts at conversation replaced by longer stretches of quiet. Maybe he was searching for his own light to hold.
As Lian stepped out for school, he pulled his jacket tight and glanced at his reflection in the glass. The candle was still there — soft, steady. He wasn't sure where this path was leading, but for the first time, he wasn't afraid to keep walking.
The halls at school felt different. Lian noticed the subtle ways people carried their fears and hopes, the cracks in their masks. But he no longer tried to define them with animals or labels.
Instead, he listened.
He heard Jamie's laughter ripple through the corridors, saw the way Mr. Arman's eyes softened when no one else was watching, and caught his mother's whispered words in his mind—reminders of patience and strength.
In the quiet moments, Lian realized that sometimes the deepest understanding came not from seeing, but from listening.
That night, as the city settled into a blanket of darkness, Lian sat by his window, the glow of streetlamps flickering like distant stars.
He opened his sketchbook once more.
This time, the pages were blank.
He picked up his pen and began to write—not about animals, but about light.
About hope.
About the spaces between words.
About the echoes in silence.
And with each stroke, he felt a little closer to home.