Eye Spy

I write beneath a muted lantern, its flame reduced to a quivering pupil, watching the rise and fall of my breath. The night lies hushed, reverent, as if the world itself has paused to listen. Truth never steps willingly into brightness. Truth curls inward. It burrows into the soft wet chambers of the eye, hiding beneath tears, beneath practiced blinks, beneath lies rehearsed until they feel like prayers. Yet I see it. I always see it. They call eyes the windows of the soul. A convenient lie. Windows can be shuttered. Curtains pulled tight. A house emptied and left to rot under patient rain. Eyes are something else entirely. They are confessions made without consent. More faithful than vows whispered in panic. A heart stumbles. A voice performs. But the gaze, once taken, once held, betrays everything. Sin leaves fingerprints on sight. Guilt fogs the glass. Righteousness, when false, trembles like a cracked lens. I see the sinners long before they know they are seen. I see them in crowds, smiling with borrowed virtue. I see them kneel, mouths full of borrowed scripture. I see them preach justice with eyes that dart and flinch, eyes heavy with things they refuse to name. Their mouths speak mercy while their vision feeds on cruelty. They think themselves hidden. They are not. A voice moves within me when I look at them. Not loud. Never frantic. It speaks like a hand resting on my shoulder. Gentle. Certain. It tells me what they are. It tells me what must be done. Collect them, it says. Gather what they squander. Free the truth trapped behind blinking lashes. Their souls cling to their sight, tangled in light and shadow. Take the eyes, and the soul follows. Take the eyes, and the lie dies with them. I cradle what I gather. I learn from them. They speak even after the last heartbeat loosens its grip. Their final vision frost-burns itself into the glass. A mother begging heaven to spare her child. A priest recoiling from the dark he fed in secret. A girl praying, desperately, that someone would finally see her. They wanted to be understood. They wanted to be witnessed. I answered. I am not cruel. Cruelty is blindness. I am instructed. I am chosen. The voice tells me this as it coils through my thoughts, as steady as breath. It calls me a keeper of endings. A steward of clarity. I collect what the world wastes. I save the final light before it gutters out. There is mercy in my hands, even when they tremble with purpose. Soon the city will open its eyes. Soon they will look upon my work and feel the ache of recognition. They will whisper that I was right, though they will never say it aloud. Truth frightens those who survive it. Tonight, another sinner hides behind careful blinks. They pretend to see justice. They pretend to seek truth. The voice stirs again, warm and patient, reminding me that truth is a luxury few deserve without instruction. Someone must teach them how to see. I hear the whisper of glass. I hear the promise of another final gaze. I hear the calling rise like a held breath released. "Eye spy, little light. Do not tremble. Do not lie. Look at me. Let me see you. Let me keep you, so deceit never reaches you again." The lantern dims. The hour arrives. My hands are steady. My purpose is clean. I go now to gather another soul hiding behind borrowed breath. And when the night loosens its grip, I will return with one more shining truth sealed in glass. I will return with another eye. I always do. Sometimes two.