My Butterfly Has Human Eyes

Eyeless corpse 1

Dusk arrived earlier than usual, as if the sky itself were reluctant to witness another night. A somber hue of bluish-gray spread across the horizon, bleeding into the village rooftops like ink soaking paper. The streets were deserted, shadows stretching long and thin under the dimming light. Doors were closed tight; lamps flickered behind curtains. Even the stray cats had vanished into unseen corners.

In the small kitchen of their wooden home, Aileen stirred a pot of soup, the soft clinking of her spoon echoing like a heartbeat in the silence. The salted fish she’d bought from the market earlier that week dissolved slowly into the bubbling broth, releasing a savory aroma that mingled with the smell of damp wood. The gurgling reminded her of the voices of sailor’s wives, murmuring anxious farewells at dawn. A memory. A sound buried under years.

She tried not to think of the dream.

It had clung to her since morning—vague, shifting, but persistent. A shoreline. A hollow voice. Cold hands brushing her cheek. She dismissed it as exhaustion, but it lurked in the corners of her mind like sea fog refusing to lift.

In the living room, Lilith leaned silently against the windowpane, her small frame outlined by the last light of day. She clutched her ragged doll, the one missing an eye, and stared at nothing in particular. For a child known to pelt her mother with endless questions, she was eerily quiet.

“Have you lit the lamp?” Aileen called out, drying her hands with a cloth as she peeked from the kitchen.

“Yes,” came the soft reply.

Then, after a pause: “Mom, hasn’t Dad come back yet?”

“Not yet,” Aileen replied, steadying her voice. “But remember what I told you? When Dad’s boat returns, it makes a sound first, right?”

Lilith nodded, not turning. “Like the conch from the sea.”

“That’s right.” Aileen smiled, though her hands tightened on the cloth. “That’s the signal.”

What she didn’t say—what she couldn’t say—was that the boat was already three days overdue.

Her mind drifted to the port’s protocol: every ship had to send a return signal via radio. A deep, bell-like tone would echo from the signal tower, audible even through the thickest walls. But lately, the air had been disturbingly still. Not just silence from her husband’s ship—but from all others too.

She had chalked it up to technical issues—maybe the antennae were down. But at the market, dockworkers had whispered of faulty lines, of wind patterns going strange. One voice, rough with age, murmured, “Maybe that tide line’s acting up again.”

She hadn’t known what that meant. No one explained. No one wanted to.

The soup pot clattered as its lid jumped with a puff of steam, snapping her out of her reverie. She stirred it absentmindedly. The scent should have made her hungry. It didn’t.

The wind outside had stopped altogether, and with it came a pressure—like the world had taken a deep breath and forgotten to release it. The stillness felt unnatural, too dense for an ordinary night.

Just as she placed the soup on the table and called Lilith to eat, a knock echoed through the house.

But it was not a knock in the normal sense.

It was slow and deliberate, like someone striking the door with the base of a fist—or something heavier. The sound was muffled, but it carried a weight, resonating through the wooden beams like a warning.

Lilith straightened. “Mom, who is it?”

“I’ll check.” Aileen’s voice was low, cautious. She set the ladle down and walked to the door, every step echoing louder than it should have.

She pressed herself against the wall, peering through the narrow slit between door and frame. Outside, the night was thick and clinging, like a wet sheet drawn across the world. She could see nothing—only blackness dense enough to touch.

The carved symbol in the doorframe caught her eye. It was still there, etched deep into the wood, faintly shining from years of oil and thumbprints. But tonight, it seemed more pronounced. Raised. Watching.

No wind. No fastened latch. Yet something had knocked.

She opened the door, heart pounding in her ears.

And there he was.

He emerged from the mist like a figure from memory—broad shoulders, light gray coat, a familiar crease between his brows. The lamp inside cast an amber halo around him, making the sea fog seem like smoke rising from his boots.

“Aileen.”

His voice was hoarse. Worn. Like driftwood that had spent too long at sea.

“I’m back.”

She froze, mind blank for two seconds. Then the kettle shrieked behind her, snapping her back.

“Rhys—!” Her voice cracked. She flung herself forward, into his arms, into warmth she had thought she’d never feel again. “You’re back.”

His arms tightened around her. He smelled of salt and iron and something older—like sea caves and bone. But she didn’t notice. Not now. Not with her cheek pressed to his chest, hearing a heartbeat that might’ve been hers.

“I’ve missed you every day,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, holding her. “I’ve missed you too. For a very, very long time.”

Yet something in his embrace faltered. A momentary stiffness. A pause in the fingers resting against her spine. Like muscle memory failing to find its rhythm.

She didn’t question it. Not yet.

Lilith’s small cry broke the moment. “Dad!”

She ran, arms flung wide, and he knelt to catch her. “I’m back, my darling,” he said, voice smooth now, like velvet laid over stone.

He listened to her tales—stars counted, drawings hidden—and smiled with a patience only fathers knew. But when he looked down, Aileen noticed the glint in his eyes.

Dark. Gentle. But so very, very deep.

Aileen suddenly remembered something. “What about the others who came with you?”

“I came back early. Caught a ride with a patrol boat that passed by—we got here ahead of them.”

“I see.” She nodded.

She hadn’t heard the sound of the boats returning. But she didn’t think much of it.

When you’ve waited five days for someone, and they finally appear at your doorstep, none of the questions matter anymore. He’s right there, standing in front of you, steady on his feet, carrying the wind home with him.

There was only one detail Aileen noticed.

When he sat down and Lilith curled up on his knees, dozing, Aileen turned from the kitchen and happened to see a smile creep across his face. It looked almost painted on—his lips lifted perfectly at the corners, but his eyes didn’t move at all.

As if he had never used them before.

The thought flickered briefly in her mind, then drifted away. It was probably just the lighting. The old cabin was full of uneven shadows anyway.

She was overthinking it.

The rain fell all through the night, leaving the sky a pale, bleached gray by morning.

When Aileen opened her eyes, the bed beside her was empty. She reached out instinctively. Rhys’s side was still warm—he must have gotten up just a moment ago. She got dressed and peered through the kitchen window, spotting that familiar figure in the yard.

He stood by the well, hands on the thick rope, drawing water just like always, to make breakfast for his wife and daughter. He was looking down. The rain had stopped. Thin streams of water still ran slowly across the stones, dripping onto his bare feet—disappearing into his skin, leaving no trace behind.

Yawning, rubbing her eyes, Aileen ambled over and hugged him from behind. “Did you sleep well?”

He looked at her gently, but his voice was a beat too slow. “Yes… I dreamed of the sea. And of you.”

“Me and the sea? Must’ve been a hard trip.” Aileen stroked his chest. Rhys had been slow to react since yesterday—he must have gone through something out there, something he hadn’t shaken off yet.

“Take it easy, alright? Stay home this week. No sailing.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m just… happy. Happy to be held by you again. So happy I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“We should check the docks later, see if the others made it back. I heard another patrol boat went out again yesterday.”

He nodded, head tilted down again, and turned away.

The clouds had drifted down to the town. They needed to leave soon—before the next rain chased them back indoors.

Halfway out the door, Lilith curled up again in her father’s arms, refusing to walk. The child, cat-like in her sleepiness, nestled close to Rhys’s chest. He freed one hand to hold Aileen’s as they walked to the docks. Dew clung to their feet. The docks were just as they always were—only a few foragers at work, the signal tower quiet and still.

They waited a while. Lilith tugged on Aileen’s sleeve, excited to go home and show her drawings to her father.

But then, at noon, someone knocked at the door.

It was the old woman from the east slope—a neighbor with rough skin and a voice like the sea. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her voice more anxious than usual.

“Aileen—come with me, quickly. To the docks.”

Aileen blinked, still seated. “The docks? Did the others return?”

The woman hesitated. Her expression was tangled. “The others? Last night… the signal tower rang out. You didn’t hear it?”

Aileen instinctively glanced back at Rhys—he was inside, quietly brushing Lilith’s hair, his movements slow and careful, precise. She shook her head. “No… I thought…”

The woman stepped closer, lowering her voice. “This morning someone found… the wreck the boats brought back yesterday. Everyone’s saying… it’s your Rhys.”

Aileen opened her mouth, unable to speak. Behind her, laughter echoed—Lilith and Rhys giggling softly together.

“But—” she began, ready to tell the woman it must be a mistake, but the neighbor grabbed her arm and pulled her outside.

“No time to argue. Come!”

“The boats docked late last night. Too dark to see anything. But when the sun came up this morning… there was a body inside that wreck. The clothes, the face, the scar on the left hand—it all matches your Rhys.”

The wind howled along the road. The sea smelled stronger than it had in the morning. The signal tower’s red light blinked faintly. A shattered boat, battered by the sea, leaned crookedly against the pier. Murmurs and muffled footsteps filled the dock.

A path opened in the crowd.

On a wooden crate lay a body, shrouded in sailcloth.

Aileen stepped closer, her limbs turning to ice.

The corpse had been found in the wreck but was still whole. The only damage was the skin—pale and swollen from the water.

She leaned in—and saw his eyes were gone. No blood. No tearing. No rot. Just two deep hollows, clean and dry, as if the eyes had been plucked out while he still breathed.

The familiar scar. The familiar tattoo. The tiny crack in the knuckle from when he picked oysters for her years ago.

They were identical to her husband’s.