She can feel the passing of time, seconds trickling away like grains of sand in an hourglass. Across from her, Opa Abelard’s voice rasps on and on. 

“...but my arm hit the side of the shelf,” he’s saying in German, “and a metal alloy was knocked into an open beaker. The corrosive acid splashed everywhere and into my left eye. That metal alloy wasn’t the only thing dissolved that day.” 

Katja fights down her nausea. She keeps her eyes fixed on a spotted leaf resting on the edge of the backyard’s wooden picnic table, unable to bring herself to look up at the eye her grandfather has just reminisced about. Or, rather, the pink, empty hole where it used to be. 

A ticking noise rings out in her head, faint but growing louder. Her mouth moves automatically, lips barely moving, supplying an excuse to escape. 

She flees into the house. Opa’s visiting from Germany, staying only for two months. She knows he wants to connect with her in that time, but emetic stories don’t help. Neither does the fact that she can barely stand to look him in the face without wanting to retch. 

Katja’s parents encourage Opa to walk her to school the next day, and she can’t exactly say no. She tries to walk five feet ahead of him at all times for reasons she can’t explain. At the school gate, Katja’s classmate, Abigail, is hanging around. All others are at the swings or milling about on the blacktop. 

Abigail looks up, mouth opening to say hi, then gags when she catches sight of Opa’s eyeless eye. Opa has a glass eye at home, but says he feels weird wearing it. 

‘Has he considered everyone else feels weird when he doesn’t wear it?’ Katja thinks. Abigail’s face has turned a curious shade of puce. 

The urge to apologize, to explain, swells. Katja steps closer to Abigail, a step away from Opa. What if Abigail thinks Opa is disgusting and tells everyone about Katja’s grandfather with a missing eye? She can’t let that happen. It comes over her, just then, in the same way it always does. She can feel a ticking noise start up in the back of her head, like a countdown timer to an explosion. With every tick, tick, her face grows hotter. Her breathing falls shallow and her palms moisten; although her eyes remain locked on Abigail’s, her thoughts whirl in panic, stringing words into a shiny necklace. Katja’s mouth moves like a marionette’s, and out spill pretty little jewels. 

“He lost his eye fighting in World War 2,” she says smoothly. “He was a spy for the Allies. He’s a distinguished war hero.” 

Opa wasn’t even alive during World War 2. But then, Katja’s not the grand-niece of the prime minister of Sweden, nor did her cousin win the lottery. Not that her classmates know that. Not that anyone’s ever noticed the many necklaces she’s strung or the clink of the jewels falling from her mouth. Opa gives her a thoughtful look, but says nothing. 

After school, he beckons her out into the backyard to sit with him at the picnic table. Katja swallows, feeling panic rise. Tick, tick, tick, goes the back of her mind. 

When she sits, they regard each other quietly for a moment. He’s wearing his glass eye. The sky is obscured with clouds, and all around them, the trees are changing colors. 

She can’t help but say the first thing that comes to mind: “I’m not a liar.” 

He’s silent. His glass gaze never leaves her face. Yet, inexplicably, his eyes are awash with contemplation.

And suddenly the tension drains from Katja’s body. 

“I did lie.” Her palms are sweaty and her breathing shallow, but there’s no uncontrollable ticking sound in her head. “ But I’m not a liar.” Her words come out stilted, painful as coughing up raw gemstones. 

He smiles. “I’ve told you my terrible story before. Do you remember how it began?” She winces. “No.” 

“I worked at a chemical lab. There was word that the higher-ups would promote the most hard-working chemist there. So whenever the supervisors came around, I’d pretend to be giving the other scientists help; help they didn’t need, but it made me look good. And then eventually I accidentally knocked a metal alloy into someone else’s beaker. I didn’t get the promotion, but I did lose my eye.” She frowns. “Your story isn’t exactly similar to mine.” 

“Isn’t it? Lies are like necklaces– never-ending loops. They’ll tighten like nooses around your neck until you can’t find the breath to tell the truth. I lost my eye because I pretended to be things I wasn’t and wanted to make myself seem important. And you…” 

Told lies so others would think I was important? She fills in his words as he trails off expectantly. Her face is red with embarrassment. But somehow talking with him here, alone, isn’t making her uncomfortable. 

Opa hands her a small, gray item resting on the bench beside him. Katja turns it over in her hands. “A journal?” 

“Everyone wants to be things they aren’t. But even if I’ll never get that promotion, you can still become the important figure you want to be. I brought you a journal to write down all your dreams.” He has the audacity to wink at Katja. She squints at him. “Write down all your fantastical stories too. But if I’m to be a spy, perhaps choose a time period I’m alive in.” 

She stares at the journal. The wind blows gently, rustling the changing leaves, separating the clouds to make way for the sun. 

“Opa,” she murmurs, and suddenly her eyes are as glassy as his crystal-clear left one. “I’m sorry.”