Eyes

“Why did you come?” he asked suddenly.

“I—I told you. To ask questions. You were the only person who I thought could answer.”

“But where did these questions come from?”

“Things I saw. Strange happenings.”

“Do you trust your eyes?”

“Why—yes. Yes I do.”

“How fortunate. I don’t.” He had unearthed a dented microscope and was peering through the lens, his hazel eye illuminated. “My eyes, I mean. The doctors said it was a disease, and I thought so as well. As if my body had been split in halves. One side reaching for some inscrutable light, the other burrowing itself in filth. What color are yours?”

“Dark brown.”

“Good. A safe choice.”

“What do you mean—“

“Two miles north, past Murdoch’s strawberry farm, at the edge of the forest. The abandoned barn house.”

“I… what?”

“The soil. Traces of old wine. That barn house used to store some.”

“You found all that from a clump of dirt? What are you, Sherlock Holmes in your free time?”

“Well, you did ask me to identify it.”

“Right. Sorry. It’s just, well.” She took a deep breath. “To be honest, I don’t know if I can believe you.”

“Understandable,” said Lewis, his voice cracking. “Sometimes I don’t know if I can believe myself, too.”


Writing month, day six, word count: 6377

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