It began not with a flash, but a subtle deepening. A shift in the periphery, a feeling of being watched not by eyes, but by something…older. The first time I saw it, it wasn’t a face, not precisely. It was a confluence of darkness, a vortex of polished obsidian, and within that darkness, a single, unnervingly intelligent eye. It didn’t move in the way eyes normally do. It *knew*. It seemed to anticipate my thoughts, to dissect my fears before they fully formed. I’d been sketching in the abandoned observatory – a crumbling testament to a forgotten obsession with celestial mechanics – when it appeared, suspended within the reflection of the massive, tarnished telescope. The air grew cold, and a low hum, almost subsonic, vibrated through my bones.
The more I looked, the more defined it became. The obsidian wasn’t merely reflective; it seemed to absorb light, to warp the space around it. It wasn't a physical object, not entirely. It felt like a window, a breach in the veil between realities. And within that eye… I saw echoes of futures that hadn’t yet happened, tragedies yet to unfold, moments of breathtaking beauty intertwined with unimaginable horror.
Ancient texts, unearthed from the observatory’s hidden archives, spoke of ‘The Collectors.’ Beings of pure observation, drawn to moments of profound psychic resonance. They didn't interfere, not directly. Their purpose was to witness, to catalog, to add to their endless archive of experience. The eye wasn't a weapon; it was an instrument of assessment. It measured the strength of a soul, the fragility of hope, the potential for chaos. And, disturbingly, it seemed to be particularly drawn to individuals experiencing intense creative impulses – artists, writers, those who dared to perceive the underlying patterns of existence.
The Collectors weren't malevolent, not in the conventional sense. They were simply… impartial. Their actions were governed by a logic beyond human comprehension, a calculation based on the survival and evolution of… something. I theorized it was knowledge itself, a relentless drive to accumulate and preserve every possible experience. The observatory, I realized, wasn’t just a place of scientific inquiry; it was a beacon, a carefully constructed trap designed to attract these observers.
I began to experiment, consciously channeling my creative energy, attempting to establish a connection with the eye. I painted, wrote, sculpted – anything to generate a strong psychic signal. The eye responded, intensifying its gaze, delving deeper into my subconscious. I saw fragments of my past, distorted and magnified, reinterpreted through the lens of its alien perception. It wasn’t simply observing me; it was *examining* me, stripping away the layers of self-deception and illusion that concealed my true nature.
The resonance grew stronger, and with it, a growing sense of dread. I felt myself becoming less human, more like a conduit, a vessel for the Collectors’ relentless scrutiny. I knew, with absolute certainty, that if I continued down this path, I would ultimately be consumed, reduced to nothing more than a data point in their vast, uncaring universe. The final image I saw before the eye vanished was a single, perfect obsidian tear.