The sky. He loved the sky. It was a strange thing to favor, something so plain and ordinary, something that most people took for granted, but I think that was part of the appeal. We sit and we stand and we reside underneath the sky day after day, night after night. No matter what may be happening on Earth; war, love, peace, disaster; the sky remains impartial, draped over the human race like an autumn sweater. Though I find that extraordinary, it wasn’t what made him love it. He loved the simplicity of the sky, but most of all, he loved its varying colors. A pale, ocean blue, contrasted by withering streaks of grey on a storm-stricken day. The splash of faded orange during a sunset, almost too timid to reveal its true fiery radiance. He would marvel at the pink cotton candy clouds and ask himself what, in all of nature, gave them their pastel tint? The sky was such a simple thing to favor. It wasn’t something rare to be fond of. Just the same old sky that hung over our heads day after day, always looming. If only he had liked some rare arctic butterfly. It would’ve been better if he had- I can forget some rare arctic butterfly. I wouldn’t have to stare at that arctic butterfly every-day. I wouldn’t be confronted by the fact that he’d loved it so very much every time I looked up past the clouds. Arctic butterflies are hard to come by. The sky is not. Arctic butterflies are objectively beautiful- anybody who saw one would say so. I’d be able to appreciate them and their beauty without being reminded of the pain. That isn’t the case with the sky. People don’t care for the sky. Most of the time, dark storm clouds are not regarded as “beautiful”. A bolt of lightning, illuminating the sky and the world around it, is not regarded as beautiful. It is regarded as strange, even frightening. It takes a very special type of person to appreciate the beauty of a storm, of a lightning bolt. It takes a special type of person to see the beauty in the everyday-ordinary sky. That’s what made my father so special. That’s what made the sky so special to me. But that was then. When he was here. When he left, he took the beauty of the sky with him. Now all that remains is a barren wasteland above my head, taunting me with light thoughts and sharp memories. So here I stand under his beloved sky only a few feet away from him, and I can’t help but think that he does not deserve to know- to remember- who I am. He told me that I look familiar. How can you appreciate the beauty of a wicked, disastrous storm but not the beauty of your own daughter? How can you remember all the types of clouds in the sky yet not the face of your own child? Does he not realize that I, too, see the beauty in the sky, in the storms. I see it every time I look up, and I hate that I’m like him. I hate that I see the beauty in the sky. I can only pray that I never hurt someone as badly as he hurt me. None of my thoughts turn into words, though, as I hand him his coffee cup. My hands are shaking slightly, but I ignore them. “Here you are, Sir,” I say politely. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he removes the cup from my trembling hand. “Thanks.” There’s a pause. Please don’t… “Are you sure I don’t know you from somewhere?” I shake my head. “I’m afraid not.” He tilts his head to the side, trying to place my “familiar face”. “No, I’m sure I’ve seen you before… what’s your name again?” “Angela,” I lie. It is a name that does not belong to me, but I can’t tell him that. If I told him my real name, Annika, he’d remember all too quickly who I really am. No matter what happens, we will always have the sky, and, for now, that is all I want us to have. Just a jumble of painful memories that once brought us joy, because I like the memory of my father more than him himself. As he turned to leave, I let out a breath. We’ll always have the sky.

I craned my neck to peer at the bed of hot coals. Though the sparks had died out long ago, the coals still sizzled with enthusiasm. "Go ahead, place it on.” Cade motioned to the thick slab of glass that sat at my feet. My knees buckled under the weight of the glass, but I ignored them, gingerly placing it atop the two metal rods that sat atop the bed of coals. “It’ll be hot enough to mold, soon. What shape would you like?” He asked, tilting the rods at an angle so the glass slid farther down. When I still didn’t answer, he continued, “This is very nice looking glass- perfect for a mirror. I can make it into a round circle if you’d like. A woman of your beauty- if I were you I’d often find myself gazing at my reflection, as well.” I tilted my head slightly, choosing my next words carefully. “Do you have any sort of protective wear? Maybe a heat-resistant fabric?” He chuckled, “I’m a blacksmith; I’m sure I have something.” Absentmindedly, I nodded. “I’d like to borrow it.” Cade’s eyes lingered on me for a split second longer before he reached to a nearby table and lifted a thick piece of charred fabric. With his hand outstretched, he offered it to me. I took it. Cade’s hammer slammed against the glass, reducing what had once been a thick, strong slab of glass to a thin sheet; a mere shadow of what it once had been. “You’re going to the ball, I assume?” He grunted, bringing the hammer down once more. With a tight nod, I told him that I was. “Who’s the lucky gentlemen that gave you the invite?” “I have no date if that’s what you’re asking,” I replied coolly. “I’ll be going to see an old friend.” The word friend hung in the air, weighed down by all the unspoken history it held behind it. “You must be very eager to meet this friend if you’re going to the dance all by your lonesome,” he offered me a respectful glance before continuing, “not many women would have the courage to show up to a ball they were invited to without a date.” A small smile played on my lips. “Oh, I wasn’t invited. I’m attending the dance only to… settle the score if you will.” Cade knit his eyebrows but said nothing, biting back whatever curiosity lurked beneath the surface. “The glass should be thin enough to mold, now. What will be the shape of this mirror?” “Lay it on that table, there, please. I have my own shape in mind.” Cade did as I asked. I lifted my skirts and joined him at the table, peering down at the glass. The glass was stained red from the heat of the coals. “It’s going to make a beautiful mirror once it cools,” he supplied. “It sure is,” I said, almost as an afterthought. I carefully placed the fabric he’d given me over my face. With a deep breath, I pressed the left side of my face directly into the blazing glass. Cade startled, jumping backward. “Miss! What are you- ” I stifled my cries as the blistering heat finally reached my skin- so much for the heat resistant cloth. Blinded by searing pain, I pulled my head back from the sheet of hot glass. Cade caught me as I stumbled backward, blindly. “What on Earth were you thinking?” He exclaimed, guiding me to the floor. “You stay right there, I’ll get some herbal cream for your face, they usually help with my burns.” “Tell me when the glass has cooled,” I mumbled. Hot, sharp pains clouded my vision, making it hard to think. Thick, warm tears fell from my eyes, stinging the open wounds on my face. I hissed, ignoring the persistent burn. “Here’s the- ” Cade began, but I waved his herbal cream away. “I want to see the mirror…” I insisted, my voice hoarse. “Miss, If you intend to wear the mirror over your own face, the guests at the ball will only be looking at their own reflection when they look at you.” I smiled faintly. “Perfect.” Lifting a trembling hand, I put the cooled mirror to my face. It fit like a glove. “You’re unrecognizable! You have a beautiful face, why don’t you wish for your face to be seen?” “My face can be seen, but the identity that accompanies it that cannot.”

I’ve always believed that the eyes reflect the soul. To some, they are merely tools, their only purpose to serve the face that displays them. People who believe that have muddy souls and clouded eyes, shrouded by a dull mist. My soul is not choked by the colorless hands of tedium, nor are my eyes void of color and exuberance. My eyes are rich and bright, a beckoning mirror into my spirit. A strong sapphire blue that holds the attention of all who happen to gaze upon them. When disaster struck, leaving me with one gaping socket where my left eye had once been, it wasn’t just my face that felt the absence. My life was lived from the confines of my bed. I had no desire to even open my eyelids, for I now saw the world as incomplete. Days turned to weeks, and as my muscles deteriorated, so did the urge to do something about it. My social life had never been particularly notable, and aside from the barista at my local coffee shop and the pigeons in the park, my interactions were short and clipped. I could never see the vibrance I saw in myself in another human being. To me, they were all just moving shadows with souls just as bland. I supposed that, with only one eye to offer insight to my soul, I had been reduced to nothing but a shadow of my former self, my soul just as bland as any other person. It was at my darkest hour that the doorbell rang. It was then that I got my first gift, with no note or explanation attached to it. The packages were small at first. An envelope containing a small flower, its petals a faded yellow. Another envelope with the feather of a bird, so bright in its orange color that it felt almost as if I was peering directly into flames. A small box tied with a cream-colored bow, and inside it a rock, emerald green, entrapping light with all its sharp, defined edges. A bigger box, about the size of my palm, that held the biggest pearl I’d ever seen. It was these packages that restored my faith in the world around me. Never before had I seen such vibrant colors, and vibrant souls. The only time I had come close to feeling the temptation hidden in the souls of those objects was when I had looked into the mirror, and gazed at my own soul through my own eyes. The packages continued to come, each more stunning than the last, and with each small gift, the accident quietly faded into the back of my mind. It never bothered me that the sender remained anonymous. In fact, I preferred it that way. Souls spoke louder than their beholders, and it made sense that the curator of these treasures wouldn’t dare outshine their glowing spirits. The sender's anonymity began to haunt me, though, when the gifts suddenly stopped. Who was I to blame for the sudden darkness I saw in the world? No more envelopes, no more boxes, and no more dull ribbons. With the end of the presents came the end of the beauty that I had seen in the world. Today marked two whole months since those presents stopped showing up at my doorstep. Yet here I sit, calloused and empty, staring at my kitchen table. Staring at the small styrofoam box that sits patiently atop it. With trembling fingers, I clutched the package to my chest, inhaling it’s essence. This anonymous sender is, I suppose, the only one who has actually seen me in all my time on this Earth. It is he who has supplied me with the very thing that I love most, the very thing that defines who I am- a bright, glittering soul. I bite my lip to keep it from trembling, carefully unraveling the bow and letting it fall limp onto the table. I lift the lid of the box, flashes of brightly colored rocks, elegant feathers, and pearls drawn from the parted lips of a clam. When I look into the box, though, I see that it is no such thing. I find myself staring into the soul of something much bigger- a strong sapphire blue that holds my gaze. I find myself peering into the gateway to my own soul. Very carefully, I lift my severed eye from the box. “How I’ve missed you…”

One step forward, one step back. The bright, hazel eyes of my partner were dazzling, but I was gazing past them. Those eyes that would have normally enchanted me were now just mere distraction, and a distraction I didn’t have time for. But looking out at the sea of brightly colored feathers and masks, all I could see were the eyes. They were my only clue. Golden eyes. They told me I needed to find the broad with the golden eyes. The hazel eyes of my partner weren’t going to cut it. I nodded to her respectfully, removing my hand from the small of her back. Ignoring her now cold stare, I moved past her, further into the crowd. Golden eyes… I scanned the many faces, shrouded by varying swirls and patterns. There were eyes of ice blue, sharp and calculating, flickering from face to face. There were eyes of emerald green, sparkling under the luminous chandelier. There were even black eyes, pools of ink that devour light with their intensity. I made my way through the mass of hidden figures. Tonight was a night for everyone. That was the beauty of the masquerade—everyone was faceless, nameless, void of any identity other than the allure of mystery. All that I had was the color of her eyes; tonight, it was what defined her. Had it not been for that glittering gold, that color of warm, dripping honey, I wouldn’t have found her at all. Not today, not in a lifetime. When I finally saw a flash, a glimpse of those golden eyes, I was off. Unlike the rest of the members of the ball, I knew what was under that particular mask that held those golden eyes captive, and it wasn’t anything to smile at. It was time to carry out my task and put those golden eyes to rest for a very, very long time.