Feathered Eyes

Every morning, the old man arrives early and grabs the park bench right by the pond, binoculars in hand. His old, tattered bird-watching book sits beside him as he gets into his routine. He picks up the binoculars, scans the sky as the birds fly past, then mutters to himself as he jots something down in his book, before returning to the birds again.

I first saw him about a year ago, on my morning walk before work. The New York City traffic buzzed through the trees, a low hum in the distance. The sunlight caught my eye in a way that made me turn. And there he was, sitting on the park bench with his binoculars, watching the birds.

He had a companion back then.

Her face lit up as the birds flew by. Her smile, as wide as a small child’s, was contagious. I still remember hearing her shout “Oh look at that one! What beautiful colors!” – her voice full of wonder.

I enjoyed watching them during my morning commute. Two people, side by side, living their lives as they wanted and enjoying every second of it. They were the kind of people that other couples dreamt of becoming as they got older.

The last time I saw her, she was moving particularly slowly. The crisp spring air tugged at the wrap on her head. He walked beside her, steadying her with a gentle arm around her shoulder. As she sat settled into the bench, I recognized the oxygen tank tucked into her bag, partially hidden under the fabric of her coat.

Cancer took her that spring.

The old man just wasn’t the same after that. He still came to the park each morning, still claimed that old bench, but it was like something had snuffed out the last spark in him. His binoculars sat beside him more often than in his hands and when he did raise them to his eyes, there were no soft smiles or shared glances. Just silence and stillness.

There was no one to share the moment with anymore and I watched his eyes slowly stop following the birds. They just fixed on the horizon – cold and unmoving. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the old man.

He sat like that for months – still, distant, looking somehow lost. Eventually, I went to the bookstore and picked up a bird-watching book of my own. I started rising earlier in the morning, lingering in the park longer and tracking the birds the best I could.

Honestly, I had hoped maybe, just maybe, seeing another pair of binoculars nearby would bring him back – even if only a little.

It was early August by the time I started to really get the hang of bird-watching. I found myself enjoying it more than I expected. The vibrant reds of the cardinals and the bold blues of the jays really stood out to me like looking at a living painting.

I even caught myself calling out to no one in particular, “Oh wow! That one’s a beauty!”

One morning, I glanced the old man’s way and he was looking back at me. He noticed the book and binoculars in my hand and gave me a slow nod. I smiled and waved, taking a step toward him.

For a second, I thought he might speak with me. His mouth tugged upward at the corners slightly, but then he turned back toward the pond with sullen eyes – shutting me out.

But the next day, he had his binoculars in hand. I smiled when I noticed him raise them several times to look through before lowering them to jot something down in his book.

This went on for a week before I finally worked up some courage to speak with him.

“Is that a white-throated Sparrow?” I blurted one morning.

His eyes flashed toward me. I noticed and quickly pointed at the bird, heart pounding.

He gripped his binoculars tighter, then raised them to the tree line to examine the bird in question.

“I only ask because… I thought they didn’t show until later in the fall, right?” I tried to push our conversation forward, but the old man remained silent.

With a nervous chuckle, I added, “Ahh well. Must mean we’re in for an early winter. Bummer.”

The old man finally lowered his binoculars and looked at me. His brow furrowed and he muttered to himself before he scribbled in his book.

I sighed and turned back to my own binoculars.

Over the next month, the old man grew increasingly withdrawn. I wasn’t quite sure what I had expected when I had encouraged him to pick up his binoculars again, but this wasn’t it.

Each morning, I saw him scanning the tree line with a sharpness I hadn’t seen before, mumbling incoherent words under his breath then scribbling furiously in that battered book. He seemed angry.

I wanted to approach him again – make sure he was alright. But after the last few failed attempts, I felt resigned. What could I do except watch him slip deeper into his own madness.

It was practically October now. Fall leaves scattered across the path, slick from last night’s storm.

I spotted the old man at his usual bench, binoculars raised, locked on to something across the pond. His book lay beside him worn at the seams; its pages now crammed with extra notes, sticking out like feathers on a molting bird.

He seemed particularly irate this morning as he shouted across the pond “You can’t fool me!” His fist raised in the air.

I froze, keeping my distance and turned my gaze across the pond, lifting my own binoculars to get a better look.

That’s odd.

I pulled my binoculars back down and opened my guidebook, flipping through the pages until I found what I was looking for. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, then peered into the lens again.

Warblers should be gone by now.

I stared at the bright yellow bird for several minutes. It seemed completely oblivious that it was out of season.

That’s definitely a Warbler.

I shifted my gaze back to the old man. He seemed refocused – staring at something else across the pond. I tried to follow his gaze, but couldn’t figure out what he was looking at.

“HA!” he shouted suddenly, snapping my attention back to him.

He jabbed a finger toward the water. “Caught you too!”

I hesitated. What was he pointing at?

Slowly, I moved closer, careful not to startle him. His eyes didn’t leave the pond.

“The birds know,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “They always know.”

I glanced down at his open book. At the top of the page, one word was scrawled in large, shaky handwriting.

Reflections

Beneath it, rows of uneven tally marks.

“What’s this?” I asked, nodding toward the book.

The old man looked at me, then the page, and back again. His eyes locked on mine, sharp and deliberate. He hesitated for a moment – as if he wasn’t sure about me yet. He sighed.

“Look over there,” he finally said, pointing across the pond. “Tell me what you see.”

I raised my binoculars.

On the far side of the pond, an old woman stood tossing handfuls of feed toward a pair of white feathered birds. These birds hung around often, so I knew what they were immediately.

“Looks like a couple of pigeons,” I said matter-of-factly.

The old man grunted. Then slowly, he pointed again – this time directly at the pond.

“Look in the water and tell me what you see.”

I followed his gesture. The water rippled faintly in the morning breeze, just enough to shimmer.

I remembered the page in his book: Reflections.

Narrowing my focus, I looked, not at the birds themselves, but their mirrored shapes in the water.

“I…I’m not sure. They seem normal to me,” I started, and he scoffed at me.

“Look harder!” he demanded. I looked again.

What was the old man trying to show me?

I saw the bird feed scatter in front of the birds in the reflection and that’s when I noticed it.

Where’s the old lady?

I shifted my gaze back up from the pond. The old lady was still there – but her reflection wasn’t. I watched for a few moments and noticed that even the birds seemed to be behaving abnormally around her – taking off in flight when the feed would scatter around them, then land back down to eat. It was as if they couldn’t tell where the feed was coming from.

I looked back at the old man, his eyes were wide with hope – like he had noticed this too and just needed someone to confirm he wasn’t crazy. I scratched my head, thinking of what to say, but all I could muster out was “Her reflection.”

The old man smiled.

“Precisely.” He rifled through his guidebook, pulling out page after page. Some pages had incoherent scribblings or words, while others had sketches of strange alien-like figures. He grabbed one of the drawings and shoved it into my hands. The figure had an elongated body, antennae, and eyes too large and too dark for any human.

“They’re watching us.” His eyes darted like a hunting bird. “They have to be.”

“Aliens?” I asked and his gaze sharpened on mine.

“Of course, there’s no other explanation.”

“I don’t understand, why aliens? And why would they lack a reflection?” I tried to make sense of what the old man was saying but he merely pointed a finger to his nose. I furrowed my brow and he scoffed, waving his hands furiously.

“Bahh, you wouldn’t understand. But I’ve seen one with my own two eyes.” His voice lowered to a hoarse whisper.

“You…saw them?” I asked, more curious. He nodded.

“I first noticed inconsistencies after you pointed out the Sparrow a few months ago. You were right,” he grinned to me, “they don’t show until later.”

“But, sometimes birds migrate early or late for the season, right?” I pondered aloud. He shook his head.

“Not with everything else I’ve noticed. I saw a Warbler earlier and nearly croaked. Those birds are supposed to have flown south by now. So, if I’m seeing the white-throated Sparrow as well? It’s odd. Those birds don’t flock in the same areas at the same time.”

I listened to the man’s explanation with wonder. He really knew his birds - but that still didn’t explain everything.

“What about the aliens. You said you saw them?”

He nodded.

“The reflections. I noticed one day in particular when I was following a bird that almost flew into someone across the pond. I gazed slightly at the water and noticed the person lacked a reflection. I was confused, ‘Why do these people lack reflections?’ I had thought.” The old man seemed frantic shuffling through more of his pages. He found what he was looking for then shoved it in my hands.

It was a photograph of a large steel door. The door in question had an exit sign displayed above it but it led into some alleyway – as if the door stood on its own. I glanced back up at the old man – who smiled triumphantly.

“I saw THAT lady,” he pointed across the pond at the woman feeding birds, “Walk right up to the door in that picture. She grabbed her face and just yanked it right off!” He motioned as if he, too, were pulling his own face off.

I widened my eyes in horror as I listened to the old man. My chest felt tight and an odd pressure built behind my eyes. His notes scattered more and a picture of his late partner fell to the ground. He reached down to grasp it, but then kept his head hung as he clutched the photo.

“My only blessing I can have is knowing my poor Giddy never saw any of this.” A single tear fell from his eye. “Poor woman was in such bad shape already, the shock alone would have killed her.”

I sat beside him in silence and gently wrapped an arm around his shoulders. An attempt to comfort him in his time of need. I let him sob for a few minutes before he slowly settled himself.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I mentioned. He began to wipe his eyes and froze. I could feel his shoulders tighten under my arm and I tried to meet his eyes. But they were staring at the ground. I looked down and saw a puddle on the ground under us. The old man was staring right where my reflection should be.

He slowly raised his head and looked at me in horror.

I sighed and reached into my pocket to pull out the small communicator I had and pushed the small red button on the side.

“Enclosure resident 35 has become aware. I’ll need him placed in isolation immediately.” Across the pond, the old woman paused from feeding the pigeons. She reached her hand into her blouse. Clutching something, I could see her speak into her own communicator.

“Do you need my assistance?” she asked.

“No,” I shot back quickly. “What I need from you and everyone else is to get your suits checked with IT immediately- the camouflage mechanism has faltered. The birds are noticing. And speaking of the birds, I could excuse the Sparrow a couple of months ago, but a Warbler today? Someone correct this immediately.”

The old man didn’t speak at all. He just stared, perplexed as I opened the cover on my communicator to log the incident – one more breach like this and we’ll have to recalibrate the human enclosures again.