VIII. The Watching Skies
Ms. Chen’s daughter and the rightful owner develop a new habit: tracking the aircraft that circle endlessly above Pine Valley Court. A powered plane completing its circle every eighteen minutes. A silent glider drifting in tighter patterns. Both appearing three days after their first meeting in the hospital records room—a coincidence too precise to ignore.
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A Story Seed Studios Presentation by the PVT Group
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Ms. Chen’s daughter and the rightful owner developed a habit of tracking the skies. It became as routine as checking the weather—perhaps more so, since the weather in Pine Valley Court rarely changed in meaningful ways.
“There they are again,” the rightful owner murmured, not bothering to point. They both knew what she meant. Two aircraft—one a powered plane that maintained a wider circle, the other a glider that drifted in tighter patterns, both constant as clockwork. “I timed them yesterday. The powered one completes a circle every eighteen minutes. The glider varies but never leaves.”
Ms. Chen’s daughter nodded, her gaze following the glider’s silent path. “They started appearing three days after we first met in the records room.” She didn’t need to state the obvious connection.
Their walks through the neighborhood had become exercises in observation. They noted the strange metallic strips embedded in sidewalk cracks—magnetic tapes that seemed to serve no municipal purpose. The rat traps placed strategically throughout the empty fields weren’t designed for rats at all, with their unusual sensors and miniature cameras.
“The FedEx delivery man came again today,” Ms. Chen’s daughter said as they turned onto Sycamore Lane. “Third time this week. Always smiling, always friendly.”
“Always taking pictures of the house while pretending to scan packages,” the rightful owner added. “Did you notice he wears a different name tag each time? Today he was ‘Rick.’ Last week he was ‘Thomas.'”
The neighborhood’s revolving door of residents had become another data point in their mental catalog. The couple at 1422 had arrived last month with stories about their second home in Arizona and plans to stay for at least a year. They’d vanished after two weeks. The new residents moved in with different faces but somehow the same furniture. Even the throw pillows remained in identical positions.
“They don’t even bother changing the curtains anymore,” the rightful owner observed.
At night, the surveillance became less subtle. Dark figures moved through the wooded areas that bordered the development. They communicated with owl calls that came at too-regular intervals and from impossible directions—owls that somehow called to each other in precise thirty-second patterns.
“I counted eight of them last night,” Ms. Chen’s daughter said. “Always in pairs, always covering each other’s blind spots.”
The rightful owner nodded. “Military. Or ex-military. You can tell by how they move. Too disciplined for local security.”
They’d stopped being afraid weeks ago. Fear required uncertainty, and there was nothing uncertain about their situation. The knowledge had crystallized into something harder, more useful—a clarity that let them see the mechanisms of their containment.
“You know what I keep thinking about?” the rightful owner said as they completed their circuit of the neighborhood. “All those people who arrived and then disappeared. How many of them were like us? How many noticed the patterns and asked the wrong questions?”
Ms. Chen’s daughter considered this. “My mother used to say that noticing is the first act of resistance. Just seeing clearly what others want to remain hidden.”
“It’s so lonely, though,” the rightful owner admitted. “Seeing what others don’t. Or won’t.”
As they walked, Ms. Chen’s daughter shared what had been forming in her mind since their first meeting at the cabin. “What if it didn’t have to be lonely? What if resistance wasn’t just two people comparing notes about surveillance planes?”
She explained her vision—a gathering so large it couldn’t be monitored effectively. A summer party with hundreds of attendees, each one a small part of a larger solution.
“We invite everyone—church groups, community organizations, book clubs. People who believe in something larger than themselves. Each person arrives, enjoys some food, picks up one item from your home, and later delivers it to a safe location we establish. A sort of bucket brigade of protection.”
The rightful owner looked skeptical. “Would people really do that?”
“In true spiritual communities, warriors show up,” Ms. Chen’s daughter said firmly. “They don’t need to know all the details. They just need to understand they’re part of something meaningful. Micro-volunteering at its finest—eat cake, take an item, say a prayer, drop it off somewhere new.”
For the first time in months, the rightful owner smiled genuinely. “It would disperse the targeting.”
“Exactly. Who’s going to stop a massive community gathering? How would they track hundreds of items moving in different directions simultaneously? The network thrives on isolation and controlled information. This would be the opposite—connection and controlled chaos.”
As they spoke, they watched the glider make another silent pass overhead. The idea of community intervention gave them momentary hope—a vision of what could be if the world worked the way it should.
“It would need to be perfect,” the rightful owner said. “The timing, the coordination.”
Ms. Chen’s daughter nodded. “It would. And that’s what community should be for. When we call ourselves warriors of light, we should turn up for each other. Not with weapons, but with casseroles and moving boxes and prayers.”
But even as they spoke, both women understood the harsh reality beneath their hopeful words. They had reached out before—careful messages, veiled requests for help, subtle signals to those who called themselves spiritual warriors. The responses had been polite deferrals, concerned but distant encouragement, promises to pray without promises to show up.
“I thought they would come,” the rightful owner admitted quietly. “When I first realized what was happening, I was so certain someone would notice. That my absence would matter.”
Ms. Chen’s daughter squeezed her hand. “My mother believed until the end that her church family would recognize the pattern. That they would look beyond the official story.”
The planes continued their endless circles overhead, recording two women who, to all appearances, were simply taking an evening walk. The observers couldn’t hear their conversation, couldn’t sense the weight of abandonment settling between them. They could only track movement, not measure the growing understanding that community—real community—remained an unrealized ideal.
“People want to help in theory,” the rightful owner said, watching the glider begin another circle. “Just not when it’s complicated. Not when it might involve them in something they don’t fully understand.”
“Or when helping might mark them as targets too,” Ms. Chen’s daughter added. “Fear is contagious.”
Above them, the circling planes were a constant reminder that while they were watched with relentless attention, they remained fundamentally unseen by those who should have recognized their distress signals and responded.
And that’s where our story ends for today. I hope you enjoyed the journey. But the story isn’t over yet—there’s always more to discover. Be sure to join me next time for the next chapter. Until then, stay curious, and I’ll see you soon.Thank you for listening to the Story Seed Studios productions.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, insects, or cats, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
