For the past three months, various media outlets had relentlessly broadcast news about the rising number of missing persons in Silentia.
Daniel, now twenty years old, could only stand still on the balcony of his apartment, staring at the sky that appeared empty to everyone else—except to him.
His thoughts drifted back thirteen years, to a time when he was nothing more than a boy absorbed in play, swinging beside a little girl from the neighboring apartment at the small playground in front of their building. Everything had felt ordinary at first, until Daniel slipped and fell.
Brushing grains of sand from his knees and calves, he looked up.
That was the moment Daniel's world changed forever.
Up above, a winged being of unimaginable size appeared. Its presence seemed to swallow the entire sky of the city, its wings unfurling like a grand curtain that draped across the horizon of Planet Ophanim. Before Daniel could process what he was seeing, the being fixed its gaze on him—unblinking—then drove a colossal pillar straight into the heart of Silentia.
Daniel froze. His entire body locked in place. The fear was so overwhelming it paralyzed his nerves, and he collapsed unconscious onto the sand of the playground.
When he awoke, he was lying on the warmth of his bed. Daniel took a long breath, trying to convince himself that the small apocalypse in the sky had been nothing more than a nightmare caused by falling from the swing. But the fear that lingered was too much for his young mind to contain. He burst into loud sobs and stumbled out of his room, his steps heavy and unsteady.
His mother, who had been washing dishes in the kitchen, heard Daniel's broken crying. She hurried toward him, hastily wiping the water from her hands with the dishcloth draped over her shoulder.
At the sight of her, Daniel could only stand frozen in the doorway of his bedroom. His breathing came in sharp gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Seeing his distress, his mother immediately knelt down to meet his height. Her fingers, still cool and damp, rested on his small shoulders, leaving behind an oddly wet sensation on his skin.
"Sweetheart, you're awake?" she asked gently.
Daniel did not answer. Instead, his sobbing grew louder. His small hands trembled as he tried to point toward the window—toward the sky that had just collapsed in his eyes.
"Daniel, why are you crying? Are you hurt?" his mother asked again, her voice now edged with panic at his overwhelming hysteria. She brushed away the remaining sand clinging to his forehead.
"Earlier… how did you fall asleep at the playground, my dear? Did you fall from the swing?"
"An angel…" Daniel whispered through his tears.
"There was a big angel in the sky, Mom. It was carrying a huge pillar."
His mother fell silent for a moment. She turned toward the window, gazing at Silentia's blue sky—clean, calm, untouched by even the slightest mark. Then she looked back at Daniel, her expression difficult to read, caught somewhere between pity and confusion.
"Daniel, there's nothing there," she said softly, stroking his hair, trying to brush away her child's 'hallucination.'
"You were just startled because you fell, sweetheart. Come on, let's wash your face."
Water flowed from the sink—cold and clear. Little Daniel stood quietly, staring at the reflection of his own face in the rippling surface.
When night fell, that reflection vanished into darkness, but the feeling of being watched refused to leave his mind. Still driven by his need to understand what had happened earlier that day, Daniel tried to persuade his mother to go out to the balcony. He claimed he wanted to see the sea of stars decorating the night sky—though in truth, he only wanted to make sure the angel and the massive pillar were still there.
But his mother, as if able to read the fear in her child's eyes, gently told him that the sky was cloudy that night. The stars were hiding, she said. Leaving Daniel no room to argue, she led him to dinner, then brought him back to his room and put him to bed.
The next day felt different.
His mother was busy, dressing neatly, moving with quiet urgency. She put Daniel in his best shirt, and together they hurried toward the bus stop about a hundred meters from their apartment.
A few minutes after they arrived, the bus they had been waiting for finally came. Their destination was singular: the central hospital, where the family's trusted psychiatrist had long overseen Daniel's Autism Spectrum condition. This visit, however, was no longer a routine check-up—it was his mother's attempt to cure the "madness" Daniel claimed to have seen in the sky the day before.
Inside the bus, creeping slowly through Silentia's traffic, Daniel could not sit still. His gaze kept darting out the window, anxiously searching the heart of the city—where something stood, according to his memory, something no one else could see. To him, the sight was unbearably real, suffocating, until he pressed his face repeatedly against the cold glass just to make sure the angel was not descending.
His mother began to feel a tightening in her chest as she noticed his agitation. She saw the strange looks from other passengers, directed at Daniel as he muttered and pointed at a sky that, to them, held nothing but ordinary white clouds. Without a word, she gently took Daniel's hand, asked him to stand, and switched seats with him. Now seated by the window herself, she blocked his view of the city sky with her body—as if shielding his eyes might erase the pillar from existence.
After a journey that felt interminable amid the stifling crowd, they arrived. Cradled against his mother's chest, Daniel was carried swiftly into the hospital building. Inside, the sharp scent of antiseptic struck them as they passed through the door to the examination area. Daniel clutched the hem of his mother's shirt, his chest tightening once more.
The chair in the examination room was cold. Daniel swung his legs, watching the wall clock whose ticking sounded unbearably loud. Meanwhile, his mother filled out forms without speaking, her hand moving too quickly to appear calm. The same name was written again—the name she had entrusted to papers like these far too many times before.
As he watched the seconds crawl around the clock face, Daniel felt that the room was far too familiar for a place that was supposed to be new.
"Daniel," a voice called softly.
He turned. The door across the room opened slowly. A man with glasses and a white coat stepped out, his gaze lingering briefly on Daniel. He offered a thin smile—not warm, but not threatening either.
"We've met before," the man continued, as if reminding Daniel of something he himself had forgotten.
Daniel blinked. He didn't know who the man was. But from the way his mother gave a small nod—as if surrendering something fragile—he knew this was not a room where one could lie.
"Your mother said you saw something in the sky yesterday?"
Daniel nodded quickly.
"I saw an angel."
His voice was small, but urgent.
"Really big."
He raised his hands, trying to shape something vast in the air.
"Its wings covered the sky. All of it."
The man began to write.
"And then what happened?"
"It dropped a pillar," Daniel answered quickly.
"The pillar was huge. It fell into the city."
Daniel tried to turn toward the window. His chest rose and fell.
"The pillar's still there. I can still see it."
The pen paused.
"Only you saw it, Daniel?"
Daniel frowned.
"My friend was looking down," he said softly.
"But the pillar was there."
He stood up, his steps unsteady.
"Doctor can see it. From the window."
His hand nearly touched the white coat before his mother caught his shoulders, gently but firmly pulling him back into the chair.
"Calm down, sweetheart," she whispered.
Daniel lowered his head. His fingers clenched the edge of the seat.
A short while later, he was moved to a corner of the room with a small toy.
The man closed his notebook and turned to Daniel's mother.
"Ma'am," he said quietly, "we need to talk."
She straightened her posture.
"Is this because he fell from the swing, Doctor?"
"The fall was likely only a trigger," he replied.
"Clinically, we know that Daniel was previously at Level One. He was still capable of masking very well—consciously imitating neurotypical behavior to function socially."
He paused, giving weight to what followed.
"But now, Daniel appears to be shifting to the next level. There are signs of regression. He is beginning to struggle to distinguish between internal stimulation and external reality."
The mother swallowed.
"What do you mean, Doctor…?"
"The world inside his mind is becoming too real," he explained.
"What he sees will remain real to him, even when the outside world denies it."
He glanced toward Daniel in the corner.
"And it will become increasingly difficult for him to adapt to our world."
After leaving the examination room, Daniel's mother walked without truly knowing where her feet were taking her. The words she had just heard echoed relentlessly in her mind. She stood for a long time at the prescription counter, staring at the slip of paper as though it were not merely a treatment plan, but a boundary she might never cross again.
On the other side of the cold waiting room, Daniel sat hugging his small knees. The toy that had been given to him lay forgotten on the floor. Across the room, a small television screen broadcast city news—the first missing persons case in Silentia in a hundred years.
Daniel watched the screen for a long time. Nothing there seemed unfamiliar.
Not until the broadcast cut to a live shot overlooking the city.
Behind the image of Silentia's intact, ordinary buildings, his chest tightened. He knew it—without the need for proof.
Something had descended from the sky, and from that day on, not everyone saw the same world anymore.