"Come on... Get down from there."
Michel Lynn was a young boy living in a world where people's lifelines were determined by the energy in their irises. According to an old legend, 'the soul is hidden within our eyes,' they used to say. Colors, in this world, were fragments of the soul—poetic traces that gave it meaning. In this system, the darker a person's eye color, the shorter their life. Those with black eyes died young, average tones meant an average lifespan, and the rarest of all—pale grey—signified the potential for near-eternity. Of course, people could exchange eyes. If someone wished to give their lifespan to another, they had to offer their heart as well. 'The heart is the mirror of a person,' they said, 'and the eyes reflect emotion,' for isn't the heart where emotions are born? The heart keeps us alive; emotions shape who we become. And to desire death—it must come from the heart. You must love someone more than you love life itself.
As for grey eyes, only one fortunate soul in the entire world could possess them at a time. When that person died, another would be born with the gift. This meant that the eye color appeared perhaps once every hundred years.
Those with black eyes were called Ash Eyes—like smoldering branches, doomed to crumble to dust. But those blessed with grey eyes were known as Candle Eyes. Bearers of eternity, wisdom, and grace, they were chosen for their kindness and their brilliance. Candle Eyes lit the way for their generation, and where they passed, life blossomed. They were one of a kind.
But this time, there was something wrong with Michel Lynn… One of his eyes was brown, the other was grey. Michel, who had only one grey eye, never understood the reason or the sorrow behind it. Candle Eyes had brought him no fortune over the past three years. And truthfully, Michel's life had never been good—he had been abandoned at an orphanage by his mother at the age of three. He had never known his father; since he bore his mother's surname, he didn't even know the man's name. His mother, Mary Lynn, died when Michel was six, and her death was ruled a suicide. When Michel found out, he felt relief—if his mother had grown tired of living, she had the right to end it. She hadn't been forced to die while still wishing to live, and that was something precious. So Michel couldn't be angry with her; if someone had lost all hope in life, their lifeline wouldn't stop them. The only guardian Michel ever had at the orphanage was his invisible sponsor—the one who provided financial support and bought him everything he owned. Michel never knew who his sponsor was or why the man helped him so much. The sponsor would buy him the most expensive clothes, ensure he had the finest belongings. Yet even that couldn't stop the bullying Michel faced at the orphanage.
Michel never knew where his right grey eye came from; he couldn't remember his mother's face and had never met his father. If that grey eye had passed on to him when one of his parents died, then why was it only in his right eye? Had someone tried to do something kind for him? Michel hoped so. If he had lived a good life, then perhaps that eye would have been the one beautiful thing his family had left him.
The lives of those with grey eyes were always filled with danger. After all, many people desired to possess Candle Eyes, and there could only be one grey-eyed person in the world at any given time. Because of that, some tried to kill the current bearer in hopes of becoming the next one. Fortunately, only Michel's right eye was grey, and that merely made him look like a freak—like a glitch in the coding of some flawed game.
Another reason Michel had been bullied since arriving at the orphanage was because of his beauty. A stunning, fragile, needy, and flawless young boy. His golden hair fell softly across his face, his milk-white skin was laced with perfect blue veins, and he had moles scattered along his shoulders and face. His feminine, rose-scented body stood as proof of the abuse he had suffered in a boys' orphanage. It wouldn't have mattered if both his eyes were different—as long as his lower body still worked.
And now… Michel stood on the rooftop of the orphanage building, barefoot, his thin and pale ankles pressed against the cold surface, wearing nothing but a half-torn white robe. One more step could grant him true eternity. His light brown hair danced in the wind, falling gently over his shoulder. The white robe slipping off his collarbone revealed red and purple bruises on his delicate shoulder. The perfect body of the young boy had been tainted by sinful marks, melting him like a candle set on fire. He wasn't supposed to be the one born with grey eyes—this world didn't deserve him. He didn't want to continue in this world. He wanted to take one more step and arrive in the next one.
Life is the greatest gift given to a human. If you know how to survive, it's so easy. But if you don't, you end up feeling like you're ungrateful.
"Michel—MICHEL LYNN! GET DOWN FROM THERE!"
Michel glanced slightly over his frail shoulder, tilting his head to the side to look at the tall, middle-aged man in a suit standing across from him. The man's black eyes were narrowed with tension and unease, his right hand extended slightly forward as if ready to snatch Michel away from the edge. Michel's lips twitched into a faint, shaky smile—this was the first time someone had tried to save him. It felt both laughable and pathetic. It was nice to hear someone call his name with such worry, but how did this man even know his name?
With an unexpected motion, the man slipped his left hand into the front pocket of his blazer before lifting both hands slowly, as if to show he meant no harm. From his jacket, he pulled out a document, an adoption certificate. "I know this looks complicated…" the man's voice was breathless and strained. "But I want to meet you, I… I'm going to help you—"
Michel's tired eyes, fixed on the void below, lingered for just a moment on the man's face before drifting back toward the edge. The building had twelve floors. Below was traffic. The act of shattering his body would take only a second. Michel's back was turned to the stranger. "What's your name?"
"Eugene… Eugene Ravelle."
"Mr. Ravelle," Michel spoke in the same flat tone, his back still turned to Eugene. "You don't have much time left, do you? You must be around twenty-five, twenty-six at most—maybe you've got three years left, if that, to stay just below average. The average lifespan is considered to be above thirty, so… you're going to die. What do you plan to do by taking me in?" As the hem of his white robe fluttered in the wind, he continued speaking. "I appreciate your intention... It's quite clever, really, to seek an eye donation from someone who already wants to die. But I don't know how to donate eyes. I have no idea how it works. If I did, I would've done it already."
"Wait!" Eugene couldn't help the panic that overtook him as he saw how perfectly Michel's right foot balanced on the edge of the rooftop. "That's not what I want… I'm not asking you for that, I swear—"
Michel paused for a moment, his tired, dull gaze lingering on the abyss below. He didn't pull his foot back, but he gave the man behind him a reply. "Then what do you want from me?" His eyes turned to Eugene, sharp as the wind sliced through his hair. "Don't say you want to help me. That's not believable. Even if you did, there has to be a reason."
"I'm going to die in two weeks." Eugene confessed without hesitation.
A dry, mocking breath slipped from the knot in Michel's throat. "And..?"
"I want you to spend those last two weeks with me." He raised his hand as if offering a deal. "Not so you'll give me your eyes. If you want to die, then I'll make my final days become our final days. I'll make sure the last moments of your life are perfect. I have a lot of money—just not a lot of time."
Michel's eyes, which had been dull and vacant until that moment, twitched slightly and narrowed in surprise.
"Your sponsor…" Eugene closed his eyes slightly, bowed his head, and sighed deeply before confessing. "Did you ever wonder about your sponsor? His name was Sacha Ravelle."
"You're not saying—"
"He was my uncle." Eugene took a few steps toward Michel as he continued speaking. It was clear that Michel now wanted to listen, because Eugene had brought a significant matter to light, and for now, the threat of suicide had slightly lessened. "Your mother and my uncle were very close friends. Your mother had White Angel Eyes, and my uncle had Crimson Luck Eyes."
Michel's eyes widened. "What are you talking about?—White? That's not possible. The lightest eye color is grey, and it grants a lifespan of a hundred years—"
"You're wrong, because there was no one to teach you otherwise." Eugene licked his lips, his throat dry—he had never been this nervous in his life. He had never saved anyone before, but he knew he owed a blood debt to someone. "If you still want to die, you can. There are plenty of ways to die without pain—medicine has come so far that you can pass into the next world without feeling a thing. And if you want to feel pain, well, I'm sure there's a way for that too. I'll give you whatever you need to do it. I told you—I only have two weeks. Let me pay my debt before I go."
Michel's eyes wandered back toward the edge of the rooftop. "How do I know what you're saying is true? What if I say I want to help you, only to find out your real intention is something else—?"
"Like what?" Eugene's question caught Michel off guard. "If you ever feel like I'm going to do something to you, you'll always have the privilege of dying. You won't lose anything—but maybe, you might gain something..."
"Sacha Ravelle..." The name barely stumbled out of his mouth, as if it struggled to exist. "What did you say about white eyes?" He wanted to know more.
"White eyes grant immortality. They are not like grey eyes, and those who possess them—though they may appear only once every billion years—can never die or be harmed unless it's by their own will." Eugene took a few steps closer to Michel, his hand still raised. "And white-eyed individuals can also bring the dead back to life."
"Bring someone back to life?.. Then is that why my mother died? Who did she try to bring back? Me? Your uncle? My father, maybe?" Michel's eyes twitched, his jaw clenched. "Then—Then what about you? Why are you here instead of Sacha? Are you the one my mother saved—?"
"How about we talk about this after you come down from there?" Eugene tried to smile, though in truth, holding his hand up, tense and ready for so long, was starting to tire him out. "I mean… if that's okay with you?" He glanced at Michel's thin robe. "You must be cold."
Michel let out a faint sigh and lowered his head. He pulled the collar of his robe over his collarbone to hide the ugly marks on his shoulder. There was a trace of shame and exhaustion on his face—an expression too vivid for a boy who had just been moments away from death. The emptiness in his eyes had been replaced by curiosity and disappointment, filling the space around them. He gently stepped down from the unsupported ledge on top of the building, placing one foot down first, then the other. He took Eugene's hand, which had been poised for nearly ten minutes, and allowed him to help him down from the rooftop.
Once Eugene had pulled Michel fully into the safe area, he quickly shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around Michel's frail body. The coat was far too big for him, nearly reaching below his knees, but the fine fabric kept him warm and also covered his wounds. Michel offered a faint nod as a gesture of thanks.
Eugene guided Michel toward the rooftop exit with his hand, and before passing through the door, they both watched as Michel turned his head one last time to the sky. The clouds were thicker and more colorful today. It might have been a small beginning—but it counted as life. A life that, for now, was still living—perhaps only for a few days, or maybe enough to fill a few years.