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…”