Lian couldn't stop thinking about the boy with gold eyes.
All day, he kept scanning crowds, hoping—half-fearing—he'd see him again. But school passed like a blur of paper, bells, and whispers. Even Jamie noticed how distracted he was.
"Did you draw something scary again?" she asked as they walked home together.
He shrugged. "Not scary. Just... confusing."
She glanced at his notebook, which he hugged close to his chest. "Wanna talk about it?"
Lian shook his head. How could he explain that he saw people as animals? That some part of him was changing?
Instead, he changed the subject. "What's the weirdest thing you've ever seen?"
Jamie didn't skip a beat. "My uncle once ate a whole stick of butter on a dare."
He laughed. The sound was sharp and real and surprised him.
That night, a storm rolled in again. Lian sat at the kitchen table translating a conversation between his parents.
His mother rattled off something long and frustrated. Lian took a breath, paused, then turned to his father.
"She said she wants to move back to China."
His mother stopped mid-motion. "Lian! 我没说那个!"
Lian avoided her eyes. His father sighed. "Tell her she's being ridiculous."
Lian didn't. Instead, he said, "He said he'll think about it."
His mother softened. For a moment, Lian controlled the entire room—not with power, but with language. It felt wrong. But also necessary.
Later that night, as thunder cracked the sky, Lian was drawn to the attic. It wasn't forbidden, just ignored. Dusty, dark, filled with boxes of old clothes and forgotten things.
But something called him there.
He creaked up the ladder and clicked on the dim bulb.
A strange hum met his ears—low, musical. He stepped between boxes, old toys, framed photos.
Then he saw it: a mirror, old and foggy, propped against the far wall. He didn't remember seeing it before.
He stepped closer.
In the mirror, his face looked normal at first—tired eyes, messy hair (still dyed unevenly from his summer in China). But then it shimmered.
His reflection's pupils widened. Its smile curled a second too long.
Behind it, shadowy wings twitched.
He stumbled back. The mirror didn't move.
Then a whisper, not from the glass, but from the attic walls themselves:
"You're waking up."
He ran.
At school the next day, everything felt louder. The bell buzzed like a scream. Footsteps echoed like thunder. Whispers tangled like spiderwebs.
In the hallway, Jamie caught up to him.
"You look like you saw a ghost."
"Maybe I did," Lian muttered.
She arched an eyebrow. "Okaayyy. You want to come to my house this weekend? A bunch of people are hanging out. No spiders, I promise."
He hesitated. The idea of people—more people—felt overwhelming.
But maybe that was exactly what he needed.
"Maybe," he said.
In last period, the teacher handed back an essay. Lian got a B-minus. Better than usual. But scrawled in red at the top:
"Interesting perspective. You clearly have your own voice."
Mr. Drayton gave him a nod as he collected the papers. A subtle gesture. But one Lian felt in his chest.
Maybe he's not a spider after all, Lian thought.
When he looked at the teacher again, he didn't see the eight-legged shape.
He saw a bear.
Strong. Quiet. Protective.
Lian blinked. Something inside him shifted. The world wasn't black and white. The animals weren't fixed.
They change, he realized. They evolve.
Just like people.
Just like him.
That night, he returned to the attic.
The mirror waited.
He didn't flinch this time. He stood before it.
His reflection blinked—and this time, he blinked back.
The wings were still there.
But so was the boy.
And the boy was not afraid.