It was early morning, the kind of fragile twilight where shadows barely linger, when I stepped outside to fetch the paper. The world was hushed, but above me, the sky held a secret—I noticed a formation of lights shaped distinctly like a teardrop. The lights were brilliant white — some blinked with an unsettling cadence, others remained steady, and yet no sound came from them. It was as if the night itself had borne a silent, hovering enigma.
I looked closer, expecting to see some kind of craft tethering these pulses of light, but all I could make out was the lights themselves, suspended in the dense blackness. The object refused to move, an eerie sentinel fixed against the stillness of the sky. I called my wife over, and she, too, watched in silent fascination.
For a full thirty minutes, we stood and watched the strange, luminous teardrop hold its place like some ancient watcher. When the sun began to rise, the lights gradually faded, surrendering to the encroaching daylight. No shape revealed itself beyond those ghostly points of white fire; only the mysterious lights remained, forever imprinted in the cold air of that Ravena morning.
This was not just an experience of sight but of lingering wonder—a rare moment when the ordinary veil lifted, leaving in its place the quiet question of what truly watches from the skies above.