On a quiet evening in Kailua, Hawaii, I witnessed a small, circular object that defied ordinary explanation. It was a dull, opaque white ball of light, faint yet undeniable, moving with a slow, deliberate pace across the night sky. What made it truly uncanny was its trajectory: unlike a typical meteorite that streaks downward, this orb appeared to drift upward, starting from the lowest point in the Cassiopeia constellation and tracing a steady path through the center of the Andromeda constellation.
There was a subtle aura or haze enveloping this mysterious circle, lending it an almost ghostly presence against the backdrop of stars. The encounter lasted only about five seconds but left an indelible impression. My husband and I watched as it moved — it reminded me of a meteorite, yes, but one defying gravity and direction, falling the wrong way. Moments like these ignite a blend of wonder and unease, tugging at the boundaries of the familiar and the unknown. The night sky had unveiled a brief glimpse of something extraordinary, a celestial visitor that slipped silently through constellations, just beyond the grasp of ordinary explanation.