Crime in Her Eyes

In a quiet town surrounded by hills and trees, there lived a girl named Meher. She was known for her beauty—long dark hair, clear eyes, and a soft smile that made everyone trust her. People often said she looked like an angel. But no one knew that behind her sweet face was a secret too dark to imagine.

Meher was 21 years old and lived alone in a small house near the woods. Her parents had died in a car accident when she was only 14. Since then, she had grown up on her own, with the help of a few kind neighbors. She went to college, worked part-time at a library, and lived a quiet, simple life.

But something was not right.

Meher never had many friends. She smiled politely but never let anyone close. She avoided parties, gatherings, and always walked home alone. People thought she was just shy, but they didn’t know the storm that lived inside her.

One day, a new family moved into the neighborhood. They had a son named Ali, who was also studying at Meher’s college. He was friendly and smart, and slowly, he tried to talk to Meher. At first, she avoided him, but Ali was patient. He started walking her home, helping her at the library, and talking to her in class. Slowly, Meher opened up.

For the first time, she laughed freely. She felt something she hadn’t felt in years—comfort, maybe even love. But deep inside her, a dark voice whispered: “Don’t trust anyone. They will hurt you. Just like before.”

Ali told her one day, “You’re special, Meher. I see something in your eyes. It’s like you’ve seen pain.”
Meher looked away. She wanted to tell him everything, but how could she?

Because Meher had a secret.

When she was 14, the night her parents died, it wasn’t an accident. Her father had been an angry man, always shouting, always hurting her mother. That night, there had been a big fight. Her mother screamed. Her father hit her. Meher, scared and crying, had taken a heavy lamp and hit her father on the head.

He died on the spot.

Her mother, shocked and bleeding, took the blame. She told the police it was self-defense. She was arrested and died in prison two years later.

Meher was sent to a foster home. The pain, guilt, and loss turned her cold. She promised herself: Never trust anyone again. Never let anyone close.

But Ali had come too close.

One evening, Ali found an old newspaper article in Meher’s drawer. It was about her father’s death. The truth started to come out. When Ali asked her about it, her hands shook. Her eyes filled with tears.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she whispered. “But I did.”

Ali tried to calm her. “It wasn’t your fault, Meher. You were just a child.”

But Meher didn’t believe that. The voice in her head returned, louder this time: “He knows. He’ll tell everyone. They’ll take you away. Again.”

That night, Meher stood outside Ali’s house with a kitchen knife. Her hands trembled. Her heart pounded. But her face was calm, almost peaceful.

Ali opened the door and smiled. “Meher, are you okay?”

She smiled back. “Yes,” she said. “I just needed to see you.”

The next morning, Ali was found dead.

People were shocked. No one suspected Meher. She cried at his funeral. She wore white. She looked like a broken angel.

But one old neighbor, an old woman who had watched Meher since she was a child, said something strange:
“I looked into her eyes that day... and I swear, I saw crime hiding there.”

The police never found out the truth. Meher went back to her quiet life, working in the library, walking alone, smiling softly.

But sometimes, when someone looked deep into her eyes, they felt a chill—like looking into a deep well filled with sorrow, pain... and something else.

Something dangerous.