Saturday morning sunlight filtered through the blinds in slanted golden lines. Lian lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His room was still half-unpacked, boxes stacked in one corner, books in the other. Posters of Chinese cartoons he'd once loved were curling at the edges.
He hadn't told anyone about the boy in the alley.
Not Jamie. Not his mom. Definitely not his dad.
He sat up slowly and looked at the mirror above his dresser. His reflection stared back—dark eyes, narrow face, and the mess of hair he'd dyed white back in China before the move. The color had started to fade, showing uneven streaks now. His father hated it. Said it made him look like a delinquent. But his mom had smiled the day she saw it, brushing her hand through the strands and calling it "青黑的黑色翼膏"—black wings with a white shadow.
He liked that.
He walked down the hallway barefoot. The wooden floor creaked in the quiet house. In the kitchen, his mom was cooking dumplings, steam rising from the bamboo steamer. The radio played old Mandarin songs.
"你想吃啥?" she asked.
Lian shrugged. "Whatever."
His mom looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "Speak full sentence. Practice."
"I want dumplings," he said, then added, "please."
She smiled and nodded approvingly.
His dad shuffled in a few minutes later, still in his work uniform though it was Saturday. He poured himself coffee and scrolled his phone.
"We're repainting the living room today," he said, not looking up.
Lian nodded. He translated it to his mom, but left out the tone, softening the words as he always did.
She replied in Mandarin. "他怎么总是那么冷漠?"
Lian looked at his dad, then back to his mom. "She said... she'll move the plants."
He didn't know why he lied. Maybe because he didn't want to be the bridge anymore. The words started to feel heavier each time.
Later that afternoon, Lian explored the attic while his dad painted and his mom organized the spice jars below. Dust clung to every surface. It smelled like dry wood and old secrets.
Near the back corner, something strange caught his eye.
A wooden panel beneath an old trunk looked newer than the rest. Almost like... a door.
He dragged the trunk aside and pried at the edges. The wood creaked, groaned, then popped open, revealing a small dark space underneath. Just enough room to crawl.
His heart thudded. Every story his mom had told him about ancient spirits and hidden monsters came back in a rush.
Still, he crawled inside.
The space was tighter than he expected. Dust filled his nose and throat. But on the far wall, someone had drawn something—animals, sketched in charcoal or old ink. A bear. A fox. A crane. And in the center, a strange beast he didn't recognize: wings, claws, but a gentle face. It looked familiar, like the shape he'd seen behind his own reflection.
Then he heard it.
A whisper.
Not in English.
Not in Mandarin.
Something deeper. Older. But somehow, he understood it.
"You are awakening."
Lian scrambled back, heart pounding. The crawlspace seemed to close in. He kicked open the trap door and crawled out into the dusty attic, gasping for air.
He sat for a long moment, staring at the open panel.
He didn't go back in.
But he didn't close it, either.
That night, as rain started to fall again, Lian sat on his bed with the notebook open on his lap. He sketched the animal from the attic wall. Gave it long wings. Eyes that seemed to hold starlight.
He wrote a single word beneath it: "Truth."
Then he flipped to a new page and, for the first time, started drawing his dad.
But as he drew, the animal didn't appear right away. Not a spider. Not a bear. Not anything clear.
Just fog.
A swirl of gray.
Maybe, Lian thought, some people are still becoming.
And with that, he turned off the light.
The rain whispered on the window like an old story, waiting to be remembered.