The days after his encounter with the fox girl were heavy, like the thick clouds that lingered over the city for days without rain. Lian's thoughts felt fragmented, like pieces of a puzzle he was struggling to put together. There was something elusive about what he'd seen, what he'd felt, but no matter how many times he tried to piece it together, the puzzle remained incomplete.
At school, things hadn't changed much. The halls were still crowded with voices, the same whispers and laughs echoing off the lockers. But Lian was different now. He couldn't quite say why, but he felt like he was standing at the edge of something—something vast and deep. The animals he used to see so clearly had become hazy, slipping in and out of focus like shadows at dusk.
He kept his head down, his eyes on the ground, as if trying to avoid noticing them.
It wasn't until Ms. Devon asked him to stay after class that he realized how much of himself he'd been hiding.
"Lian," she said, her voice warm but concerned, "you've been quieter than usual. Is everything okay?"
Lian hesitated. He wasn't sure how to answer. How could he explain to someone who didn't see the world the way he did? How could he tell her that his world had become this strange blur of shifting shapes and fractured thoughts?
"I'm fine," he said, even though he wasn't sure he believed it. "Just… thinking about stuff."
Ms. Devon studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Sometimes, it helps to talk about it. You know that, right? If you need to talk, I'm here."
Lian looked at her, the kindness in her eyes stirring something in him that he hadn't been willing to acknowledge before. Maybe it was the quiet of the classroom, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, or maybe it was just the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him.
"I…" He opened his mouth, but no words came.
Ms. Devon gave him a soft smile, like she knew he wasn't ready, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be someday. "Take your time," she said, as she gathered her things and headed for the door.
Lian sat there for a moment, the quiet of the room enveloping him. His fingers drummed lightly on the desk. He'd always been good at hiding. At pretending things were fine when they weren't. But for the first time, he realized that pretending wasn't the same as understanding.
The truth was, he wasn't fine. Not really. He had felt something shift, something deep inside, and it scared him. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he didn't know who he was anymore. Or maybe he was just too scared to see the truth.
That evening, after dinner, Lian retreated to his room, pulling out his sketchbook. The drawings he had made were scattered across the pages—animals, symbols, faces. But they no longer felt like the answers. They felt like distractions, like things he had created to keep himself from facing what was really inside him.
He looked at the page, his hand hovering over the blank space. He needed to draw, needed to put something down to make sense of it all. But his mind was a storm of images and thoughts, and none of them made sense together.
Finally, he picked up his pen and started drawing—not animals, but shapes. Swirls. Lines. Patterns that connected and disconnected, like a maze he didn't know how to navigate.
He stopped, his hand shaking slightly. There was something about this. About the way the lines twisted and turned, how they seemed to shift as he looked at them. Something about the way they reminded him of the world outside his window—always changing, always shifting.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breath steady. When he opened them again, he looked at the page, and for the first time, the maze didn't feel like a puzzle to solve. It felt like something he had to live through. Something that wasn't about finding the answers, but about accepting that the answers weren't always clear.
The next day, as Lian walked home from school, he noticed something that had always been there but he hadn't really seen before. The old oak tree at the end of the street. The one his father had stood by that day.
It was different now. The branches were bare, and the leaves that had once clung to them were now scattered on the ground, broken and brittle. It was still standing, but there was something about it that felt… older. Wiser, maybe. The tree had been through storms, through changes, through the passing seasons. And yet it remained.
Lian stopped in front of it, his breath fogging the air. He reached out to touch the rough bark, the familiar texture grounding him, reminding him of the way things were before. Before he started seeing things, before everything changed.
And just like that, the world around him shifted again.
In the reflection of the window across the street, Lian saw himself, but not as he usually did. This time, he wasn't just a boy standing still. He was surrounded by animals—foxes, birds, wolves—all swirling around him like smoke, their forms shifting, their eyes flickering with something he couldn't quite place.
For the first time, Lian didn't try to make sense of it. He didn't try to find the meaning in the animals, in the patterns, in the chaos. He just watched, letting it wash over him.
He wasn't sure what it all meant. But maybe that was okay.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of the coming winter, and Lian felt a shiver run down his spine. He turned back to the oak tree, touched the bark once more, and then walked home, leaving the world behind him, if only for a moment.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, Lian sat by his window, staring out at the darkness. He hadn't figured it out yet. He wasn't sure he ever would. But for the first time in a long while, he wasn't afraid of the unanswered questions.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.