They called it a “drone.” Just like they always do when something strange dances in the sky, spinning webs of light and mystery in the dark. A neat little word, compact and cold, as if it could wrap up the unknown in a tidy box and stow it away.
“It’s not a threat,” they said, their voices steady but their eyes shifty, like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. But how do they know? And what are they not telling us?
In the old days, it was “weather balloons”—harmless, floating excuses for the unexplainable. Now, it’s drones, buzzing metal scapegoats for the night’s impossible shapes. But the cracks in their story show. No hum of rotors. Just silence and the feeling that something was watching.
The question lingers: Are they protecting us from panic, or protecting themselves from the truth? Maybe they don’t know what’s out there. Maybe they’re just as scared as we are. Or maybe—just maybe—they know exactly what it is, and that’s why they’re so desperate to keep it quiet.
Whatever it is, it’s still up there, night after night, cutting paths through the stars while we’re fed lies down here. And somewhere in the shadows, the people who should have answers are watching, waiting. Hoping we’ll buy the story again this time.
