It wasn’t a human eye. No—not anymore.
Once, perhaps, the being who bore it had walked among us, flesh and thought, tears and breath. But now, the eye shimmered like a collapsed galaxy frozen in a single moment of awareness. Around its iris spun the fossilized gears of time, baroque filigree etched in some long-dead language. Golden vines coiled in fractal spirals across the cornea, pulsing softly like thoughts echoing through forgotten dimensions.
And in the center: a supernova still screaming.
The Watcher of the Starforge was said to awaken only when the spiral of entropy reached its midpoint—when the laws of physics began to yawn and stretch, asking themselves, “Why bother?” It was then, in the third twitch of the Universe’s last sleep, that her eyelid cracked open through a crust of cosmic dust and ash, revealing the engine of dreaming stars.
But here’s the weird part: the eye wasn’t watching the cosmos.
It was watching you.
Through mirrors. Through puddles. Through your lover’s left pupil on nights when the silence got too thick. And when you blinked—it blinked back, almost surprised you noticed.
Those who stared long enough reported whispers like magnetic wind. Some built temples to it. Others clawed out their own eyes and offered them in pairs—one for the past, one for the absurd.
One man, a minor clerk from the Ministry of Clocks, began painting his dreams compulsively until his heart failed from the weight of pigment. His final painting? An exact replica of the eye—but with a tear sliding down from its galactic center, turning into gold leaf as it hit the canvas.
To this day, we don’t know if it weeps for what it sees… or what it used to be.
