The Sight.

The day they removed the bandages, my first-ever sight was of Anna’s face, wet with tears, her eyes the color of a summer sky—a color I was only just learning the name for. The world exploded into my consciousness in a brilliant, overwhelming flood of light, shape, and hue. For weeks, I was like a child, rediscovering the universe. I’d spend hours just staring at the vibrant green of a single leaf, the deep, impossible blue of the ocean, or the unfamiliar face that looked back at me from the mirror. I was euphoric, drunk on the beauty of a world I was finally, truly a part of.

The first “glitches,” as I called them, were easy to dismiss. I’d see a flicker in the corner of my eye, a momentary distortion in an empty doorway, or a tall, thin shadow on a distant rooftop that seemed to have no source. My doctor assured me it was normal. “Your brain is building a visual library from scratch, Ethan,” he’d said. “It’s bound to have some rendering errors while it adjusts.” I accepted his explanation. My brain was simply learning to see.

But the errors didn’t stop. They became clearer, more defined. They weren’t shadows; they were shapes. Tall, impossibly thin figures, like silhouettes cut from television static. They were utterly motionless, usually perched in liminal spaces—on street corners, in the empty spaces between buildings, on top of telephone poles. They were humanoid, but their stillness was absolute, unnatural. They were like statues of pure dread.

The true horror began on a walk in the park with Anna. I saw one of them, standing perfectly still under the shade of a large oak tree. It was a shimmering, man-shaped column of heat-haze in the cool air.

“Anna, do you see that tall man over there?” I asked, my voice casual, testing the waters.

She followed my gaze, her brow furrowed in confusion. “What man? There’s no one there, honey. Just the tree.”

I looked back. The figure was still there, a silent, static sentinel in a world that was completely oblivious to it. My blood ran cold. This wasn't my brain adjusting. This wasn't a glitch. I was seeing something that wasn’t meant to be seen.

I became obsessed. I started to notice them everywhere, hiding in plain sight. They were like a hidden layer of reality that had been unlocked for me. I saw that they were drawn to places of strong emotion or potential chaos. One stood in the corner of a hospital emergency room. Another loomed over a busy intersection where cars sped through yellow lights. They were always just… watching. Passive observers of our world. Or so I thought.

The day I learned their true nature, I was sitting at a café, watching the world go by. I saw one of the static figures standing across the street, near a construction site where a crane was lifting a heavy load of steel beams. A man in a business suit walked below, talking on his phone, completely unaware of the silent observer or the danger above. As he passed directly under the crane, I saw the static figure *flicker*. It was a nearly imperceptible movement, a slight twitch in its form. At that exact instant, a cable on the crane snapped.

The crash was deafening. People screamed. The steel beams fell, missing the man by inches, crushing the spot where he had been a second before. He stumbled away in shock, saved by a miracle. But I knew it wasn't a miracle. I had seen the flicker. The being hadn't been watching the chaos. It had been waiting for it. Or perhaps, it had given it a nudge.

From that day on, my new world of sight became a prison of constant terror. Every beautiful sunset was tainted by the static figures silhouetted against it. Every crowd of laughing people had a silent, shimmering predator hovering at its edge. The joy was gone, replaced by the terrible burden of knowledge.

The final, soul-crushing blow came last night. I was standing at my living room window, looking out at the rain-slicked street. I saw one of them across the road, standing under a streetlamp, the light seeming to bend around its formless shape. I stared at it, filled with a mixture of fear and helpless frustration.

And then, for the first time, it moved.

It didn't flicker. It didn't twitch. Slowly, deliberately, its featureless head—a swirling vortex of static—turned. It turned until it was facing my window. Until it was facing *me*. It knew. After all this time, it finally knew I could see it.

I stumbled back from the window, my heart a block of ice in my chest. The joy of sight, the miracle I had prayed for, was now a curse. The world was no longer beautiful; it was infested. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my palms against them, trying to find the safe, comfortable darkness I had known my entire life. But I knew it was useless.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I opened my eyes again and looked out the window. The thing was no longer across the street. It was standing on my front lawn now, closer. Just standing there. Watching. Waiting.

For thirty years, I had prayed for sight. Now, I pray for a new kind of blindness.