Every winter morning before dawn, as I prepared to catch my bus, the world around me was shrouded in darkness, blanketed by the snowfall from the night before. My neighbors busied themselves clearing their driveways, the rhythmic scraping of shovels against snow the only familiar sound. It was on such a morning in Markham, Ontario, that my world shifted.
I glanced upwards, almost absentmindedly, and there it was—an enormous, gray object hanging silently in the sky. It defied the usual shapes reported in the papers. Imagine two vast rectangles joined to form an obtuse angle of about 130 degrees. Below this angular structure, suspended like a shadowy globe, it emitted a presence both eerie and mesmerizing.
Despite the extraordinariness of this sight, fear didn’t take hold of me. Instead, I was captivated, frozen in place as I absorbed every detail. The object was unmoving, almost contemplative, as if it were observing me as much as I was observing it. I noticed my neighbors nearby yet chose silence, preferring to keep this awe to myself. With measured steps, I crossed the street for a better vantage point. But when I glanced back, it was gone—vanished as if it had never been there at all.
I share this now for the first time beyond my closest family and friends. Growing up, my parents spoke often of their own mysterious aerial sighting in Quebec during my childhood, a shared family echo of the inexplicable.
That morning, time held its breath; the sky revealed a secret briefly, then reclaimed it. Whether a visitor from another world or a phenomenon yet to be understood, the memory remains etched—a silent, haunting silhouette against the winter dawn of Markham.