The dreams started the next day.
Not nightmares—those came and went like summer storms. These dreams were quieter, slower, filled with symbols Lian couldn't translate. Trees that whispered in a language just out of reach. Mirrors reflecting skies instead of faces. A bird with glowing eyes circling overhead.
Always the bird.
It perched on telephone wires, fence posts, even the foot of his bed once, wings folded tight like secrets. A crow, bigger than normal. Its feathers shimmered faintly with iridescent hues, like oil in water.
It never spoke, but Lian understood it anyway.
It was watching. Waiting.
School returned like a cold slap. Lian drifted through his classes, only half-listening. Words felt like wallpaper—decorative, but meaningless.
Mr. Drayton handed back their essays again. This time, Lian got an A-minus.
"Finding your voice," the teacher said as he placed the paper on Lian's desk. "Keep writing."
Lian blinked. He tried to thank him, but the words jammed up.
As the teacher turned away, Lian glanced up—and saw feathers.
Not real ones. The shimmer of them. Ghost-feathers shadowing Mr. Drayton's shoulders, black and sharp.
But he wasn't a crow. Lian blinked again and saw the bear—the same protective shape as before—but something new fluttered underneath.
We all carry more than one animal, Lian thought.
Maybe we change with time.
Or maybe we were never just one thing to begin with.
After school, Lian walked home alone. Jamie had a dentist appointment, and the other kids didn't invite him anywhere.
He didn't mind. Not much.
He cut through the park, the path quiet except for squirrels and the wind. That's when he saw the crow again—perched on a rusted swing.
This time, it cawed.
Lian froze.
The bird hopped off the swing and flapped up to the jungle gym. Then, as if expecting him, it tilted its head and flew off, not far, but enough to make Lian follow.
Down the path, around the bend, through a gap in the trees he'd never noticed.
A clearing. Quiet. Still.
At its center stood a strange structure: part gazebo, part shrine. Covered in vines and paper talismans. An old Chinese charm hung from one corner, fluttering gently.
Lian stepped inside.
Etched into the wood were animals. Dozens of them. Panda. Monkey. Spider. Fox. Crane. Snake. Tiger. Rat.
They circled a central symbol: an eye, surrounded by feathers.
A chill ran up his spine.
This place had waited for him.
Back at home, his father was in the living room, watching TV. His mother stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables in silence.
Lian sighed and translated something pointless just to avoid the tension.
"He said your soup smells good," he told his mother.
"She said she wants to be left alone," he told his father.
Neither questioned him.
Later that night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he whispered to the dark:
"What am I?"
No answer.
But somewhere outside, a crow cawed.
The next morning, Lian found something tucked into the back of his notebook.
A page he hadn't written.
It was a drawing.
Of the crow.
Its wings spread wide, but instead of eyes, its face was a mirror.
Beneath it, scrawled in ink that wasn't his:
"Look deeper."
Lian's fingers trembled.
He looked up, heart hammering.
And for the first time—
He felt watched.
But not in a bad way.
Like something was waiting to see what he would do next.