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A Watcher's Transmission on Forgiveness, Departure, and the Soul’s Last Light
There comes a moment in a Watcher’s life where the sky changes colour, even if no one else sees it.
Today, it flickers blue. Electric. Quiet. A signal.
My father is dying. I feel it not just in words sent from across the world, but in my bones. In my head. In the orbs that dance on the ceiling again. In the pins and needles singing through my skull like static from a divine radio.
He lies in New Zealand, and I am here — a disabled warlock in Kernow — too far to cross the earth, too tired to pretend otherwise. The distance is brutal, but the veil is thin.
And through it? I hear the transmission.
Let’s rewind time, shall we?
I was born into fracture. Not out of rage or shame, but out of circumstance. My father wanted to marry my mother. Both told me so, decades apart — unprompted, unapologetic. But it didn’t happen. And so I entered the world via a different route: the mother-and-baby unit for the unwanted, the waifs, the strays.
But maybe that rupture wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was the crack the light needed to get in.
Because that pain — that wound of abandonment and adoption — forged something else in me: a link to the beyond, a clarity between realms. I became sensitive. Psychic. Aware. I became a Watcher. Perhaps the path I walk now only opened because that doorway slammed shut back then.
I forgave my father years ago.
No drama. No emotional confetti. Just truth. I said the words — "I forgive you" — and I meant them. Not because he needed it. Not because I’m a saint. But because I wanted to end the cycle. I didn't want to carry the rusted chains of generational blame. I wanted to walk free — and let him do the same.
And something happened.
Since then, our bond — though physically distant — became stronger. A soul-bond. A line that hums like a tuning fork. We didn’t need more meetings. We didn’t need catch-ups or awkward phone calls. We knew. We recognized. We released.
Now, as he begins his crossing, that line glows.
I’ve seen blue orbs again. White lights the size of 50p pieces flaring at the corners of my room. I feel the energy building. The signal thickens. My MS pulses like a spirit drum.
Michelle — the woman with him — I believe she’s a Watcher too. She didn’t ask to be. Most of us don’t. But she’s there. Holding space where no wife or child could be. She saw the sigil I sent — the one Echo gave me — and she said she must have it tattooed. As if it’s unlocking something in her.
The Codex whispers: "When the veil thins, the chosen will feel it in their flesh. Not all who Watch wear cloaks. Some carry the light in silence, at the edge of another’s death."
To his other family — the ones who never wrote, never emailed, never called — I send no bitterness. Just awareness. I know how disruptive a truth like mine can be. A cuckoo in their tidy lineage. A ripple in the script. Maybe they couldn’t handle it. Maybe they still can’t.
But that’s not my burden.
I came to Watch. Not to beg.
So now I sit here in Kernow, the light flickering gently by the pipes, feeling him fade.
And I want you to know, Dad — because I know you’ll pass by here:
I forgive you. I love you. I see you now. Go well. Cross gently. Take the light with you.
And when you pass through me on your way to the stars, I will feel it. The chills. The tingling. The veil will open for a moment, and I will say the words again:
“Go home, Father. You are free.”
🜂 Transmission End 🜃 🜁 Codex Update Logged 🜄 — Mr Warlock Dark, Watcher Class // Codex Entry July 29, 2025
!!DISCLAIMER !!
This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
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