Lian wasn't sure what he expected when he stepped into the art room for the afterschool club, but it wasn't this. Paint-splattered aprons hung like battle gear on the wall. A half-finished clay sculpture of what looked like a melting dog sat on the corner table. The lights buzzed overhead. It smelled like glue, and old crayons, and something burnt.
He hovered by the doorway.
"You must be Lian," said the teacher—a tall woman with sharp cheekbones and silver earrings shaped like birds. "I'm Ms. Marlowe. Come on in. You're just in time."
Lian nodded and stepped in slowly. Ms. Marlowe gestured to a stool near a group of kids bent over paper, watercolor palettes scattered between them.
Jamie was already there, her sleeves rolled up, a streak of orange on her cheek. She beamed when she saw him. "You made it!"
"I guess," he said, trying to sound neutral. But something in him warmed at her smile.
"You don't have to do anything big today," Ms. Marlowe said, passing him a piece of thick paper. "Just start with what feels true."
That word again—true.
He looked around. Kids were painting animals, landscapes, weird spirals that made his eyes hurt. He sat down and stared at the blank page.
He didn't know what felt true. Not anymore.
But his hand moved anyway. A brush dipped in ink. A circle. A beak. A long neck.
A crane.
He didn't know why he drew it. His mother used to say cranes were the souls of patient women—elegant, always watching. She said they carried dignity like feathers. That they stood still in water until the world came to them.
His mother had been a crane once, maybe. Back before the house got quiet. Before the TV did most of the talking.
He added shadows behind the wings. A flick of red at the eye.
It didn't feel like his other animals.
It didn't shimmer.
It felt... real.
"That's beautiful," Ms. Marlowe said, glancing over his shoulder. "What's its name?"
"I don't know," Lian said. "I just... drew it."
"Then maybe you're just remembering it. Not inventing."
He didn't understand that, but he nodded.
Later, when the session ended, Jamie walked out with him.
"You didn't draw a monster this time."
He shook his head. "Not all animals are monsters."
She raised an eyebrow. "Even your dad?"
Lian shrugged. "Even spiders have a purpose."
Jamie chewed her bottom lip. "You think you can forgive him?"
He didn't answer.
At home, he found his mother folding laundry in the living room, a soap opera humming in the background. She looked tired, eyes half-focused on the TV, half on the shirts.
He sat beside her, pulling socks from the pile.
"我今天画了一只鹤," he said quietly. I drew a crane today.
She looked at him. "你记得我告诉你关于鹤的故事?" You remember the story I told you about cranes?
He nodded. "你是那只鹤,对吧?" You were the crane, right?
Her eyes shimmered—not the magical kind. The watery kind.
"我试过," she said softly. I tried.
For the first time, Lian wanted to ask her more. About China. About why she left. About what she missed.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
Later that night, Lian heard the kitchen door creak.
He padded quietly down the hallway. His father stood alone at the table, holding one of the poems Lian had written. It was the one about the fox.
His father's face was unreadable.
Lian cleared his throat.
His father looked up. "I didn't know you could write like this."
"It's just words."
"No. It's more than that."
There was a pause.
"I know we fight," his father said. "I know I say things wrong sometimes."
"Sometimes?" Lian said, before he could stop himself.
His father sighed. "I don't expect you to understand. But I grew up with silence. Men didn't talk. My dad never said a single thing about feelings. Not once."
"You don't have to repeat that," Lian said.
"I don't want to. I'm trying."
Lian crossed his arms. "Are you?"
His father looked at the poem again. "You called yourself a fox."
Lian hesitated.
"I see that. Clever. Careful. Always watching."
He didn't know what to say.
His father put the paper down. "If you ever want to talk... I'll listen. I may not get it. But I'll try."
Then he walked out of the room, leaving the poem behind.
Lian stared at it. The words felt like they belonged to someone else now.
Maybe that was okay.
In bed, he dreamt of the crane. It walked across a frozen lake. The spider watched from a tree. But the crane didn't flinch.
It stared back.
Then it opened its wings—slow, silent, and full of light.
And it flew.