Cian Cahill
The Rockfields always seemed to hum with energy. That was what people said, at least, the tourists and the crystal shop owners and the self-proclaimed psychics. The "Redstone Resonance," they called it. A mystical energy, or a spiritual connection, or a cosmic alignment.
Cian Cahill had never bought into any of that. The rocks were just rocks. Impressive rocks, sure—immense formations of crimson sandstone that had been carved by the wind into shapes that sometimes looked intentional, if you squinted. Some old sci-fi film from the 70s even filmed a scene set on Mars out here on the red rocks. But still, they were just rocks. Sedimentary deposits, oxidized iron, remnants of a prehistoric seabed. Simple science.
Lately, though, he'd begun to question that hypothesis.
Cian sat reclined upon a flat boulder at the edge of the Rockfields, a textbook open on the surface in front of him. He'd come here to study in peace, away from the bustle of town, away from all the noise. Two pens and a highlighter were arranged in perfect parallel atop the stone beside him, along with a notebook full of meticulously organized information. The mid-August sun beat down relentlessly, pushing the temperature well into the 90s. Sweat trickled down his neck, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the paragraphs about cellular respiration that he'd read four times already without absorbing a word.
Because the rocks were humming. Not metaphorically, not spiritually. Actually humming. He could feel it—a low vibration that seemed to thrum dully through the sandstone into his body. It made Cian drift back to the long, unending drone of cicadas during his summers back in Alabama.
And it wasn't just the rocks. He could sense the lizard hidden in the crevice two feet to his right, its cold blood pumping rhythmically as it waited for him to leave. He could feel the power lines running half a mile away, carrying electricity to the outskirts of town.
Cian screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, taking a moment to adjust his white baseball cap and run a hand through his hair. This, out by the Rockfields, was still an improvement over being in town. He just had to lock in and focus.
Everything had started a few weeks ago, around when Grace's Grotto had opened. At first, he'd thought it was a form of heightened awareness, maybe stress. Then, with a creeping feeling of panic, he'd wondered it was some kind of low-level hallucination, possibly brought on by too much caffeine and too little sleep. But when the lights in his room started flickering whenever he got frustrated, when his laptop glitched out during an all-night study session, when he could tell his mother was home before he heard her car in the driveway—he had to admit something was happening.
At least he could keep having caffeine.
Still, it was something that defied logical explanation. And if there was one thing Cian Cahill couldn't stand, it was a phenomenon he couldn't explain.
With a huff, Cian leafed through the pages of his notebook, finding a section toward the end. He'd started keeping notes. Meticulously documenting every unexplainable incident, every strange sensation. That was how his mind worked, cataloging, organizing, searching for patterns. And that was how science worked. It had to be something environmental. Maybe it was—
Suddenly, the bioelectric signature of the lizard flared as a distant rumble of thunder rolled across the Rockfields. Torn from his notes, Cian looked up at last, glancing west. Dark clouds heavy with rain had gathered on the horizon while he'd been lost in thought. A summer storm rolling in without warning, not too uncommon he had learned, even in the August desert. He'd give it ten minutes, maybe less, before the downpour hit.
Exhaling, he closed his textbook and gathered his materials, tucking them carefully into his black backpack, perennially covered in red dust. The hike back to town would take about twenty minutes if he hurried. With luck, he might beat the rain.
He glanced down at his black, analog wristwatch. It was a gift from his father for his fourteenth birthday, simple and utilitarian. That was long before the vibrations, the noise. And yet, the watch did not hum. It was self-winding, powered through pure kinetic energy produced by the motion of the wrist. Even now, even with everything feeling like it was changing, his father's gift was the same as it had been before. It brought a small smile to his lips.
The storm's arrival had been well-timed. He had somewhere to be soon. He slid off the boulder, adjusted the white baseball cap, and started walking.
Cian had made it about halfway to Main Street when the rain began—plump, warm droplets that quickly became a torrent. Cian didn't bother running. He'd pulled his hood over his cap and just resigned himself to getting soaked when he felt something that made him stop dead in his tracks.
Something. A presence. Close. And big. It wasn't human. It wasn't animal. It felt almost like standing next to a power substation, but distorted somehow, as if the current was flowing in impossible directions. It drowned out even the roar of the falling rain. He couldn't tell where it was coming from.
Maybe running was a good idea.
But slowly, very slowly, Cian forced himself to turn in a complete circle, his sharp blue eyes scanning the desert landscape around him. Nothing but scrub brush, red rocks, rain.
The presence remained, looming and overwhelming.
He could feel his own adrenaline surging, the bioelectric signals in his own nervous system accelerating in response to perceived danger. Fight or flight.
Cian backed away, forcing himself to do so without sudden movements and trying to process what was happening. There was nothing there. Nothing visible, at least.
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the presence vanished, leaving behind only the steady pattering of rain and a lingering sense of… dread. Cian stood frozen for several more moments, water streaming down his face, before forcing himself to move again.
He'd add this incident to his notes later. But concerningly, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. And he was afraid it wouldn't be the last.
He needed to get to town.
The rest of the walk to Main Street took longer than anticipated, his basketball shoes squishing with every step by the time the buildings came into view. Redstone's downtown wasn't much—a single main drag with low-slung, adobe-style buildings painted in earthy tones that complemented the surrounding landscape. In the rain, the red dirt turned to rusty puddles that reflected the neon signs just starting to flicker on as afternoon edged toward evening. The hum of the Rockfields was replaced by the artificial electric vibrations from the lights, the cars, the people waiting cautiously indoors for the storm to pass.
Cian eventually passed the vacant storefront that had once been Grace's Grotto. He slowed, studying the dusty windows and the "For Lease" sign that looked like it had been there for years, not weeks. It was surreal, walking past that empty space. He could remember it so clearly—the mismatched furniture, the rich smell of coffee, spices, and sweets, the way Grace had smiled at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
"You must be a student. I bet you could use a little something to sharpen that keen mind of yours," she'd said with a chuckle the first time he walked in. She'd handed him a steaming mug of coffee that smelled of cardamom and a hint of something he couldn't identify—and it had been exactly what he needed. His brain had felt clearer, more focused.
And now the café was gone. No trace it had ever existed. To many, while it seemed a little strange, they just moved on with their lives. But not everyone. There were others who remembered. And maybe others who have also… changed.
Because Redstone was changing too. And the feeling Cian would get, the sense that something very big was just inches away from him and pulsing with energy, wasn't the only thing that was different.
Cian's hypothesis was that they were all connected, somehow. And he was going to find out.
That was why he'd posted the flyers a few days ago. "RE: GRACE'S GROTTO - INFORMATION WANTED," with a time and place to meet. The Redstone Public Library, Study Room C, 7:00 PM. He'd been careful with the wording, trying to strike a balance between sounding credible and getting the attention of the right people. The flyer asked straightforward questions: "What do you remember about Grace's Grotto? When did you first notice it open? When had you noticed it was closed? Do you have photographs or receipts from the café?" Cian had wrangled with the idea of mentioning anything beyond this, like unusual events or personal changes, but something made him feel uneasy about doing so. He figured anyone who had been affected would read between the lines, and anyone who hadn't would hopefully dismiss it as a student trying to document local history for a project.
He'd put them up at the college, the diner, and the library itself. He'd been methodical about it, choosing high-traffic areas where they'd be seen by as many people as possible.
Now, soaked to the skin and still feeling unsettled, Cian checked his watch again. 6:15. The meeting wasn't for another forty-five minutes, but after what had just happened, he needed time to collect himself. To organize his thoughts. To prepare for what might be a complete waste of time, or might be the first step toward understanding what was happening to him—to the whole town.
Over the past week, Cian had kept his distance from most people. The new sensory input was overwhelming enough without adding the complicated electromagnetic fields of human nervous systems to the mix. His mother, Helene, had noticed, asking if he was feeling well, and he'd brushed it off as end-of-summer fatigue. The truth—that he could literally feel the surge in her neural activity when she was worried, the subtle changes in her bioelectric field when she was keeping something from him—would only make her worry more. Obviously. Because she might think he was losing his mind. After everything—the sensations, the reactions of electronics, the presence he would feel... He wondered if he was too.
The rain was starting to let up as he approached the library, a surprisingly well-maintained and charming building. Inside, it smelled of aged paper and new carpet, the air conditioning a shock after the humid heat outside. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a particular frequency that immediately set his teeth on edge—it was different from the natural hum of the Rockfields, artificial and jarring. He could sense the electric current flowing through the walls, the subtle electromagnetic fields of computer equipment, the faint signatures of the few patrons scattered throughout the building.
One of the librarians stood behind the front desk, Ms. Winters. She looked up as he entered, her eyes flashing behind a pair of thin reading spectacles.
"Caught in the storm, Mr. Cahill?"
"Yes, ma'am," Cian said, glancing down at his clothes and sensing a spike of something from the librarian, maybe disapproval. He tried to modulate his Southern accent, but to no avail. Not to mention the ma'am would betray him regardless. "It's letting up now. I caught the worst of it."
She hummed but said nothing more as he made his way toward the study rooms in the back. He could feel her attention on him, though. Not just visually—he could sense it, the way she emanated a kind of focus. Suspicion? Curiosity? With a glance around the library, he could see it was almost vacant. Ms. Winters most likely saw his posting on the bulletin board at the front of the library and could guess why he was here.
Study Room C was empty and dark when he arrived, as expected. It was a small, windowless space with a round table, chairs, and a whiteboard mounted on one wall. Cian set his backpack on the table and pulled out a notebook—not his scientific observations, but a new one, blank and ready.
He caught his muted reflection in the whiteboard—a lanky, waterlogged young man. So much for first impressions. With a grimace, he unzipped his soaked hoodie and slung it over the back of one of the chairs, leaving him in a slightly drier white T-shirt. He briefly considered removing his wet baseball cap and decided against it. His wavy half-wet hair underneath would be worse.
…Not that it mattered, really. This wasn't about impressions. It was about information. Data points. Finding the signal in the noise.
He settled into a chair facing the door and waited, chewing on the cap of his pen. In exactly thirty-seven minutes, he would find out if anyone else in Redstone was as desperate for answers as he was. He tried to predict who might show up. A friend? A neighbor? Perhaps someone he'd never noticed before. Someone changed, like him.
What would he even say to them? "Gee, I’m sure glad I ain’t the only one with superpowers."
Don’t be an idiot, Cahill.
But if they'd been to Grace's, if they'd felt the changes... maybe they wouldn't need much explanation. Maybe they were just as eager to make sense of what was happening as he was.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd discover he wasn't alone in this.
His fingers twitched, poised to reach for a cup that wasn’t there. Damn it. He should've picked up a coffee somewhere on the way.
