On a clear evening in late March, while walking with my girlfriend to a nearby gas station in Maple Ridge, British Columbia, something odd caught her attention—and I found myself staring into a mystery that still unsettles me. Just before 9 PM, she pointed upward and asked, “What are those things up there?” I looked up and saw not stars, but four distinct red lights, too large and vibrant to be anything familiar.
They moved silently, rising upward, spaced about two inches apart if measured by holding out a finger—a fragile constellation in motion. The lights formed almost a right-angled triangle, with one light above, maintaining an eerie precision as if tethered in a slow, subtle dance. They swayed gently side to side, too deliberate to be random, flickering softly.
Instantly, I called my mom, my voice trembling as I exclaimed, “Look—UFO!” And just as quickly, the spectacle changed. The lights began to flicker erratically, vanishing one by one from the top down, until nothing remained in the black sky except an unsettling silence.
Seconds later, breaking the quiet, an aircraft surged overhead—an unmistakable military jet slicing through the night toward where the lights had vanished. The entire episode lasted barely four minutes, yet it left me with a knot in my stomach—a mixture of awe and dread.
From my vantage point looking southwest, I still don’t understand what I witnessed. The lights were like nothing natural or man-made I’ve ever seen, and the sudden arrival of the jet raises haunting questions about what truly lurks beyond our sky. This encounter, brief and baffling, continues to haunt my nights, a reminder that some mysteries refuse to be explained.