The next day, Mr. Arman didn't say much—just handed Lian a book with no title and nodded toward the back of the library.
"Last door on the left," he said. "I unlocked it for you."
Lian hesitated. "Why?"
"Because you're ready to stop seeing and start understanding."
Lian clutched the book tighter and made his way past the rows of worn shelves, past the study tables where no one ever sat, past the forgotten world of outdated encyclopedias. The door was old—wooden, faded, slightly warped. He'd passed it a hundred times and never noticed it.
Now it was open.
The room inside smelled of ink, dust, and time. Not moldy. Just... still.
One window. One desk. One flickering lamp. The walls were lined with journals. Not organized by author or title—just stacked and stacked, like a forest made of paper.
Lian stepped inside. His sneakers made no sound on the carpet. He sat at the desk and opened the book Mr. Arman had given him.
It was full of drawings.
Animals.
But not just animals. Notes. Theories. Annotations in the margins:
"Tiger = not always fierce. Sometimes frightened."
"Spider isn't evil. Spider protects. But also manipulates."
"People shift. Watch their eyes. Their hands. Not just their shape."
Lian's breath caught.
He flipped faster. On one page was a boy—not unlike himself—with dozens of animals floating around him like ghosts.
Someone else had seen what he saw.
He wasn't alone.
Hours passed. He copied notes into his own sketchbook, his hand moving faster than his thoughts.
A section caught his eye. It was titled: "The Fifth Sense."
Beneath it, written in careful script:
"Some of us see what others hide. Not as punishment. Not as gift. But as mirror. We reflect what they cannot show. We carry the weight of recognition."
Lian closed the book slowly.
The room didn't feel quiet anymore. It felt… awake.
When he stepped out into the main library, Mr. Arman was waiting.
"So?" he asked.
"I thought I was the only one," Lian said.
"You're never the only one," Mr. Arman replied. "You're just the first to admit it."
Lian looked at him for a long time. The image flickered—just for a moment—and he saw the outline of a bear. Tired. Protective. Not dangerous.
Just... watchful.
And beneath that, something else.
A man.
At home that night, Lian pulled out his journal. For the first time, he didn't just draw the animal. He wrote what he felt.
Mr. Arman: Bear. Gentle. Guarding. Alone, but not lonely.
Then, after a pause:
Me: Still shifting. Not sure. Maybe… maybe a candle.
He closed the book and whispered, almost without thinking:
"I'm not afraid to see anymore."