Visitors 101 Our most distant cousins have been visiting us for millennia. It is only in relatively recent history since the invention of the camera that their surprisingly friendly visitations have been documented on film. Previously humans relied on written accounts or artistic depictions, some of which we hope to show you should they be released to us soon. However this evidence, when it occasionally surfaces is quickly confiscated or ridiculed and labelled as a hoax, so amazingly these visits remain merely a myth until this day. In dusty boxes hidden in shady museums and secure facilities these pictures are mostly hidden away indefinitely until someone discovers them and is brave enough to leak them onto the internet and into public consciousness. Here is our first batch of pictorial documentation of these visitors throughout the ages. Visitor 058- c1970s Monty Rosalind, ever a seeker of shadows beneath the banalities of everyday life, wandered with her spaniel, Rufus, across the twilight field. The air was sticky with the hum of something vast and unspoken, when the descent came—soft, green, and pulsating like the rhythm of an otherworldly heartbeat. Montague, he called himself then, appearing from the haze with a grin that barely concealed the flicker of his true self beneath: elongated limbs too elegant for Earth, translucent skin mapping stars unknown to her telescope. They met eyes, his amber orbs darting nervously, but Rosalind simply asked, "Lost your way, have you?" Their love was a dance of riddles and revelations, a mix of cryptic flirtation and shared laughter that tickled dimensions. It was only after a decade of shared cups of tea and philosophical tangents at the kitchen table that he shed the chrysalis of his human disguise. His true form stood before her, shimmering with refracted light like a liquid aurora. She sipped her Earl Grey, unfazed. "Knew there was something peculiar about you," she quipped, her gaze as steady as his alien silhouette. Now, aged and intertwined by the poetry of decades, they shared their hours in two halves. By day, Monty wore his human guise, gardening or gossiping with the postman, his Earthly mask cracking only at the corners. By night, as the disguise slipped away, Rosalind read to him under moonlit skies, his alien form resting against her as Rufus’ progeny snoozed at their feet. “Twelve hours a man, twelve hours a mystery,” she’d say, “but always my Monty.” The stars overhead blinked approvingly, as if in on the secret they shared.