One crisp October night in Lincoln, Nebraska, I witnessed something that still lingers in my mind—a strange apparition cloaked in silence and mystery. It was shortly after nine in the evening when two glowing red lights appeared low on the eastern horizon, spaced like the ends of a slender bar. They moved with a slow, deliberate grace, drifting steadily across the southern sky without a single sound to betray their presence.
The sky was remarkably clear, exposing every star and constellation with startling clarity, yet these lights held a strange prominence against the night, unnervingly close at times. They hovered in the darkness for a full sixteen minutes, fading quietly as they vanished into the distance. Despite their proximity, the air remained eerily still—no hum, drone, or whisper of machinery or engines. The silence was as profound as the lights were enigmatic.
As the minutes stretched on, I considered mundane explanations—a satellite, the space station, a plane perhaps—but nothing truly fit. The unearthly red glow, the gliding motion, the complete absence of sound—they all painted a picture far removed from ordinary aerial activity.
That night, the sky was a canvas, and those red lights wrote a story neither fearsome nor friendly, but deeply compelling. A story of the unknown, silently narrated under the vast, watchful stars.