bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Outside, the city stirred—the distant murmur of cars, the occasional bark of a dog, footsteps crunching on the pavement—but inside, the quiet felt different this time.
Not empty. Not heavy.
It was steady.
He thought of his mother in the kitchen below, her movements gentle and sure as she prepared tea. She hummed a melody, one that didn't have words but felt like home. Lian listened, feeling the quiet comfort wrap around him like a warm blanket.
Pulling on his robe, he made his way downstairs. The kitchen smelled faintly of ginger and jasmine. His mother turned and smiled when she saw him, her eyes soft, her face lined with a thousand small worries and hopes.
"早上好,莲," she said simply. Good morning, Lian.
He smiled back. "早上好,妈妈."
His father sat at the table, a cup of tea steaming in his hands. He looked up as Lian entered. For a moment, the three of them shared a silent space, the kind that felt both fragile and whole.
Breakfast was quiet but calm. No forced conversation, no heavy silences—just the sound of spoons stirring and cups clinking. Lian caught his father's eye across the table. There was a tentative warmth there, a bridge built slowly but surely.
After breakfast, Lian went to his room and pulled out his sketchbook. The pages held the story of his journey—shifting animals, breaking shadows, flickering lights. But today, he felt drawn to something new.
He flipped to a blank page and began to draw.
A tree.
It was rooted deep and wide, its thick trunk twisted but strong. Branches stretched outward, reaching and bending with the breeze. Leaves fluttered delicately, some bright and new, others worn and curling at the edges.
He traced the lines carefully, each stroke a quiet prayer.
Beneath the drawing, he wrote in neat letters:
Strength grows quietly, from deep within.
The words felt true.
Later, at school, Jamie found him sitting beneath the sprawling oak tree in the courtyard, sketchbook open on his lap.
She plopped down beside him, kicking a fallen leaf across the grass.
"Whatcha drawing?" she asked, peering over his shoulder.
Lian shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. "A tree. I'm thinking about strength."
Jamie nodded thoughtfully. "Like how some things look still, but they're actually holding everything up underneath?"
"Yeah," Lian said. "It's not always loud or obvious. Sometimes strength is quiet. Patient."
They sat in companionable silence, watching the wind move through the leaves.
"You know," Jamie said softly, "I think you've always had that quiet strength, even when you didn't see it."
Lian looked at her, grateful. "Maybe. I'm still learning how to trust it."
They talked about school, about hopes, about fears — small things that suddenly felt important because they were shared.
That evening, Lian sat with his parents in the living room. The TV played softly in the background, but no one really watched it. Instead, they talked.
Not about the big things. Not about misunderstandings or language barriers. Just simple things — what they ate, what they saw during the day, a joke Jamie had told him.
His father laughed—a genuine sound—and his mother smiled more freely.
Later, as Lian lay in bed, he thought about how far they had come. How many small moments, like these, had built the bridge between them.
He thought about the animals, the shadows, the flickering candlelight. They were part of him, but no longer the whole story.
He closed his eyes and felt the quiet strength within — steady, enduring, patient.
And for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace with the person he was becoming.