Chapter 14
One year later, Mary found me in the garden.
I'd bought a small house in the countryside—nowhere near the city, nowhere near anything connected to my old life. The garden was wild and overgrown, buzzing with insects and birds and life I could hear but never see.
"There's a letter," Mary said, settling into the chair beside mine. "From the prison."
"Burn it."
"Already did." I could hear the smile in her voice. "But there's another one. From a research hospital in Geneva."
I tilted my face toward the sun. "What about?"
"A clinical trial. Bioengineered corneal implants. They've seen your file—the original healing suggests your tissue has regenerative potential. They think you'd be a good candidate."
I didn't respond for a long time.
"There's no guarantee it would work," Mary added carefully. "And even if it does, the recovery would take months."
I thought about the two weeks I'd been given. How I'd spent them fighting for my survival instead of marveling at the world. How the last thing I ever saw was the sunset from Mary's balcony—orange bleeding into purple, the sky on fire.
If I got another chance, I'd look at everything. I'd look at Mary's face, and the garden, and the sky after rain. I'd read books with my own eyes and watch stupid movies and cry at how beautiful ordinary things are.
"Sign me up," I said.
Mary made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She took my hand—the same hand that had held mine through every dark day, every trial, every nightmare—and squeezed.
"I'll be there the whole time. And when you open your eyes after surgery, I'll be the first thing you see."
I smiled. "Promise?"
"Promise."
-
Six months later, in a sterile room in Geneva, a surgeon removed my bandages.
Light flooded in—white, blinding, overwhelming.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them slowly, tears already streaming.
Blurry shapes sharpened. Colors separated. The world assembled itself piece by piece—ceiling tiles, fluorescent lights, a window showing gray Swiss sky.
And Mary. Right there, in the chair beside my bed, her face tear-streaked and radiant.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," I said back.
She looked older than I remembered—of course she did, it had been over a year since I'd last seen anything—and there were new lines around her mouth, and her hair was shorter.
She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Can you see me?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"Every part of you," I said.
She burst into tears—loud, ugly, joyful tears—and climbed onto the bed to hold me, both of us laughing and crying and saying nothing and everything.
Outside the window, clouds parted briefly, and a single beam of sunlight cut through the gray sky.
I watched it.
I watched it for a long, long time.
And I promised myself—no more closed eyes. No more darkness. No more giving my sight, my heart, my life to men who would use it against me.
From now on, everything I saw belonged to me.
Every sunrise. Every color. Every ordinary, extraordinary day.
Mine.
I'd bought a small house in the countryside—nowhere near the city, nowhere near anything connected to my old life. The garden was wild and overgrown, buzzing with insects and birds and life I could hear but never see.
"There's a letter," Mary said, settling into the chair beside mine. "From the prison."
"Burn it."
"Already did." I could hear the smile in her voice. "But there's another one. From a research hospital in Geneva."
I tilted my face toward the sun. "What about?"
"A clinical trial. Bioengineered corneal implants. They've seen your file—the original healing suggests your tissue has regenerative potential. They think you'd be a good candidate."
I didn't respond for a long time.
"There's no guarantee it would work," Mary added carefully. "And even if it does, the recovery would take months."
I thought about the two weeks I'd been given. How I'd spent them fighting for my survival instead of marveling at the world. How the last thing I ever saw was the sunset from Mary's balcony—orange bleeding into purple, the sky on fire.
If I got another chance, I'd look at everything. I'd look at Mary's face, and the garden, and the sky after rain. I'd read books with my own eyes and watch stupid movies and cry at how beautiful ordinary things are.
"Sign me up," I said.
Mary made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She took my hand—the same hand that had held mine through every dark day, every trial, every nightmare—and squeezed.
"I'll be there the whole time. And when you open your eyes after surgery, I'll be the first thing you see."
I smiled. "Promise?"
"Promise."
-
Six months later, in a sterile room in Geneva, a surgeon removed my bandages.
Light flooded in—white, blinding, overwhelming.
I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them slowly, tears already streaming.
Blurry shapes sharpened. Colors separated. The world assembled itself piece by piece—ceiling tiles, fluorescent lights, a window showing gray Swiss sky.
And Mary. Right there, in the chair beside my bed, her face tear-streaked and radiant.
"Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," I said back.
She looked older than I remembered—of course she did, it had been over a year since I'd last seen anything—and there were new lines around her mouth, and her hair was shorter.
She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
"Can you see me?" she asked, her voice cracking.
"Every part of you," I said.
She burst into tears—loud, ugly, joyful tears—and climbed onto the bed to hold me, both of us laughing and crying and saying nothing and everything.
Outside the window, clouds parted briefly, and a single beam of sunlight cut through the gray sky.
I watched it.
I watched it for a long, long time.
And I promised myself—no more closed eyes. No more darkness. No more giving my sight, my heart, my life to men who would use it against me.
From now on, everything I saw belonged to me.
Every sunrise. Every color. Every ordinary, extraordinary day.
Mine.