The loudest sound Lian had ever heard wasn't his parents arguing or a teacher yelling—it was the blaring fire alarm that tore through the school one drizzly Wednesday morning. It was shrill, angry, and demanded instant obedience. Chairs scraped. Papers scattered. Feet stampeded.
Lian jumped. His pencil rolled off the desk. Around him, the classroom erupted in movement. Ms. Devon stood up calmly and raised her voice over the alarm.
"Single file, people. Phones away. No talking."
Lian followed the others outside, clutching his jacket. The sky was gray, low, heavy. The wind bit through his sleeves. He didn't know why, but the suddenness of the alarm made something shake loose in his chest. Like a memory trying to claw its way out.
They lined up outside in front of the chain-link fence. Jamie appeared beside him, rubbing her arms.
"Drills are dumb," she said. "You think we'd all walk out this calmly if there was actually a fire?"
Lian didn't answer right away. Across the yard, he noticed Ms. Devon watching the students—not just counting heads, but really watching them. Her eyes were sharp, but not unkind. He looked again for the crane. It was still there. Not flickering now, but steady. Balanced.
"She's not a spider anymore," he murmured.
Jamie leaned toward him. "What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing."
The fire drill lasted fifteen minutes. When they returned, Ms. Devon handed back their graded essays. Lian's had red marks all over it.
"Lian," she said, pausing at his desk. "Stay a moment after class."
Jamie made a face. He rolled his eyes.
When the room emptied, Ms. Devon sat at the desk across from him.
"Your writing," she said, tapping the paper. "It's thoughtful. But your grammar... it's getting in the way."
"I'm trying," he muttered.
"I know," she said. "That's why I want to help you."
He blinked. "Help me?"
"After school. Once a week. I'll stay and we can work on this together. If you want."
He studied her. The sharpness he used to fear had softened into something else. Not pity. Patience.
"Okay," he said.
At home, Lian didn't mention it. Instead, he went to his room and opened his notebook. He added a new word:
shifturn — a person caught between two languages, two places, two selves.
Then he drew the crane again. But this time, he added threads. Long, red, fluttering threads that connected the crane's wings to a small figure below. A boy.
Later that week, after their first tutoring session, Ms. Devon gave him a thin book.
"It's a collection of poems," she said. "Some of the writers are immigrants, like you. I thought you might connect with it."
He took it carefully. The cover was a swirl of colors, and the title read: Tongues Between Worlds.
He read it all that night. Some poems he didn't fully understand. Some hit too close to home. One started with a line that made him stop breathing:
"My mouth is full of two languages, both too heavy to swallow."
He copied that line into his notebook. Then he added his own.
My ears are a bridge. My tongue is a gate. My voice doesn't know which side to stand on.
He didn't know if it was a poem. But it felt real. Like something only he could say.
At school, things shifted slowly. The kids in Jamie's group started waving at him in the hall. He still didn't talk much. But when he did, they listened.
In math class, a boy named Marcus asked him about his drawing. "That a bird?"
"It's a crane," Lian said.
"Looks sick," Marcus said, and gave him a nod like it meant something.
Lian smiled.
One afternoon, Jamie found him sketching in the library.
"You're getting better," she said, peering over his shoulder. "What's this one?"
He hesitated. "I think it's me."
The drawing wasn't finished. The figure had wings too small to fly, a tail it didn't know how to use, and eyes that didn't match.
Jamie studied it. "You look like a whole zoo got mashed together."
"Maybe I am."
She grinned. "Good. Normal's boring."
That night, he overheard his parents again. But this time, the tone was different. Quieter. Less sharp.
His mother said, "他开始喜欢学校了."
(He's starting to like school.)
His father replied, "我知道.我看到他笑."
(I know. I saw him smile.)
Lian stood outside the door, heart pounding.
He didn't lie that time. He didn't need to.
He just listened.
And for the first time, the language between them didn't feel like a wall.
It felt like a bridge.