Lian couldn't sleep that night.
His mind was too full—of flickering shapes and scrawled notes, of whispered thoughts not his own, of the way the journals smelled like memory. He sat up in bed, sketchbook open across his lap, the pages fluttering in the breeze from his slightly cracked window.
He wrote the word "bestiary" in bold at the top of a new page.
Below it, he started listing names. Some he knew. Some he barely remembered. Some he had judged too quickly.
Jamie – Monkey. Loyal. Sharp. Brave when it counts.Ms. Devon – Heron. Stern posture. Soft underneath.My mother – Panda. But not lazy. Carrying too much.
He hesitated at the next name.
Dad – Spider. Still. Still a spider. But… not the same kind. Less web. More waiting.
He stared at the page for a long time.
Then, in smaller handwriting, he added:Sometimes we can't forgive the animal, but we can understand the person.
At school, things felt different.
Not brighter exactly. But clearer. Like the lens he'd been using had shifted a little to the left. He noticed how Darren, the loudest boy in class—always cracking jokes and drawing attention—had the body of a lion but the eyes of something smaller. Something hiding.
He drew him anyway. A lion with nervous hands.
At lunch, Lian sat near the edge of the courtyard, watching classmates move like puzzle pieces. None of them knew he was building a secret world out of them. Not for power. Not for spying. Just… to understand.
"Are you drawing me?"
Lian looked up. It was Sofia, the quiet girl from science lab. She stood with her arms crossed, suspicious, half-smiling.
He closed the notebook. "No."
"Liar." She sat beside him anyway. "What animal am I?"
He squinted, trying to focus. "Maybe a fox?"
Her eyebrow arched. "Sly and sneaky? That's rude."
"I mean clever," he said quickly. "And quiet. But not silent. Like… you choose what people hear."
She seemed to accept that.
"Okay," she said. "You're a mirror."
Lian blinked. "What?"
"That's what you are. You don't just draw people. You reflect them. You make them see things they weren't ready to."
He felt like she had peeked too far into him. He didn't reply. Just watched as she got up and walked away, not looking back.
That afternoon, he added her to the journal.
Sofia – Fox. Smart. Self-edited. Also mirror.
And below that:
Me – Still shifting. Still candle. Maybe also mirror. Maybe also something else.
Back in the hidden library room, Lian started pulling journals more carefully.
He realized they weren't just about animals. They were about transformation. About people shifting forms over time—some becoming more honest, others hiding deeper.
One entry caught him off guard:
"A snake can shed its skin, but it's still a snake. Unless it chooses not to bite."
Another:
"I thought she was a rabbit—scared, small. But she grew antlers. Became something new. Maybe that's the point. We all grow antlers eventually."
Lian turned the page and stopped.
A drawing—half spider, half boy. Caught in its own web. Above it, one word: "Me."
His breath trembled.
He flipped again and saw the same handwriting, different page: "It's easier to label someone than to love them."
Lian closed the book slowly.
That night, as he brushed his teeth beside his mother, she glanced at his sketchbook lying open on the sink.
"你还在画动物?" Still drawing animals?
Lian nodded. "有时候他们自己出现." Sometimes they just show up.
She touched his shoulder gently. "你越来越像你外婆." You're more and more like your grandmother.
He paused. "She saw animals too?"
His mother nodded, then left the room without saying more.
Lian stared at the mirror.
Not at the reflection.
But at what might be hiding beneath it.