Lian sat on the edge of the couch, one sock on, the other foot bare, toes curled against the cold tile. His mother was in the kitchen, humming to herself, surrounded by the scent of soy sauce and ginger. She moved with a practiced rhythm, flipping dumplings in the pan with chopsticks longer than Lian's forearm. Her mouth opened slightly, whispering a tune that wasn't really a song, just the memory of one. A lullaby from another life.
In the living room, the television buzzed in the background, cycling through the same morning news. His father sat reclined in his favorite chair, the leather creaking under his weight, sipping weak coffee from a chipped mug that read "#1 Dad." He hadn't said much that morning, other than a quick grunt about Lian's untied shoelaces. Lian didn't bother tying them.
"Lian," his mother called in Mandarin, "你要吃饭了."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he glanced at his father, who blinked at the TV as if he hadn't heard. Lian stood and padded over to the kitchen.
"She said breakfast is ready," Lian mumbled, not looking back.
His father sighed and stood up, rubbing his temple. "You gotta speak more English with her, Lian. She won't learn if you keep babying her."
Lian didn't answer. His fingers brushed the edge of the table, where three bowls were set, steam rising from them in lazy spirals. He slid into his chair while his parents took theirs. They ate in silence, the clink of chopsticks and spoons louder than any words.
His mother smiled at him, gently. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands falling loose around her face. She nudged the bowl toward him.
"你喜欢吗?" she asked.
"She said do you like it," Lian translated flatly.
"Tell her it's fine," his father said, chewing.
Lian turned back to his mother. "他说好吃,很好吃."
His mother lit up, proud. His father didn't notice the lie.
School started that morning. Lian was twelve now, entering the seventh grade at Mayfield Middle. The yellow bus wheezed up to the curb in front of their apartment complex, and Lian climbed on alone.
He took a window seat near the back, cramming his backpack between his knees. Kids shouted across the aisle. A boy behind him was throwing erasers into someone's hood. A girl popped bubble gum in rhythmic bursts. No one spoke to Lian. That was fine.
He pressed his forehead to the glass and watched the world blur. A squirrel darted across the sidewalk, tail twitching.
Monkey, he thought. Fast. Nervous. Curious.
His mother had told him about animals since he was little. Not just in the way adults tell stories, but as if they were truths carved into the world. People had spirits, and those spirits had forms. Some were kind. Some weren't.
"If someone is panda," she used to say, "they are soft, yes? They take naps and eat much, but they are kind. They care. Monkey? Monkey is funny, brave. But always looking for trouble."
And then there were others. Foxes. Snakes. Spiders. Creatures that smiled with too many teeth.
The first time Lian saw one was last year. A boy had tripped him in the hallway, laughed, then offered a hand to help him up. But Lian saw something behind the boy's smile. Not a human face. Not even a boy. A long-legged spider crouched in his hoodie, fangs twitching behind his lips.
That was the first time Lian knew he could see things other people didn't.
Homeroom was loud. Posters lined the walls with messages like Be Kind to Be Cool! and Your Mind Is a Muscle.
Mrs. Camfield stood at the front, writing her name in wide cursive across the whiteboard. Lian saw her animal immediately: an owl. Sharp-eyed. Watchful. She adjusted her glasses constantly, scanning the room as if waiting for someone to cause trouble.
"Welcome back! New year, new start!" she chirped, voice too bright. Lian winced.
Someone bumped into his desk. He looked up.
"Sorry," the girl said. Her hair was bright pink at the ends, fading into black. She slid into the seat next to his.
Lian blinked. A rabbit. No—a fox? Her form shimmered slightly, like heat above asphalt. He frowned.
"I'm Jamie," she said. "You new?"
Lian hesitated. "Kind of."
"Cool. Let me know if you get lost. This place is like a maze."
He nodded, unsure how to respond.
When Mrs. Camfield called roll, she paused at his name.
"Lee... ahn?"
"Lian," he corrected quietly.
She smiled like she hadn't heard him and moved on.
He wrote his name on the corner of his notebook in careful block letters. L-I-A-N.
Not "Lee-Ann." Not "Lion." Just Lian.
At lunch, he sat alone.
The cafeteria smelled like pizza and old milk. He peeled the lid off a fruit cup and picked at the soggy peaches.
"You can sit with us," Jamie said, appearing again.
He followed her to a round table crowded with kids. Some nodded at him, others didn't look up. One boy talked with his mouth full. Another girl showed off a cracked phone screen.
They were loud. Messy. Alive.
Lian sat quietly, listening. Watching.
The boy across from him was big, with a booming laugh. Lian saw him as a bear. Not angry, just... big.
The girl next to Jamie looked like a bird. Pecking at her food, flitting eyes.
But one kid, three seats down, was a shadow. Not quite a form. A blur.
Something's wrong with that one, he thought.
Then Jamie tapped his arm. "What are you thinking about?"
Lian looked up.
He shrugged. "Just... animals."
She grinned. "Cool. I like animals."
That night, he told his mother about the girl with pink hair. About the teacher who looked like an owl.
She smiled, nodding. "You have good eyes. Like your grandfather."
His father entered the room halfway through, arms crossed. "Are you two still talking about that weird animal stuff?"
Lian didn't answer.
"He needs to focus on real things. School. Friends. Not made-up garbage."
Lian turned to his mother and said, in Mandarin, "He said he thinks it's interesting."
His mother beamed.
His father sighed and walked away.
And Lian smiled for the first time all day.
Because sometimes, the truth was better left in pieces.