After four sleepless nights in Chicago, all I wanted was home — the smell of our coffee, the quiet hum of our kitchen, the warmth of Julian’s voice. Three years into our marriage, we’d become polite ghosts sharing the same house — partners in schedules rather than in dreams. So when my last meeting ended early, I didn’t think twice.
I booked the first flight home, smiling at the thought of surprising him.
As my car pulled into our driveway, the Rockies painted the sky gold — but the moment I stepped inside, the silence felt… staged.
Too neat.
Too still. A mug sat cold on the counter, the air carried the sharp scent of turned soil.
And through the glass door, I saw him — my husband, sweating under the setting sun, frantically digging into the garden, burying something that gleamed black and massive in the dirt.
The sight froze me. The thing was as big as a pumpkin, smooth and dark like obsidian — an egg, if such a thing could exist.
“Julian?” I called.
He spun around, startled, eyes wide, as if I’d caught him mid-crime.
“You weren’t supposed to be here!” he blurted. My heart stuttered.
“You’re burying… what, exactly?” “It’s nothing,” he said too quickly. “Please, Nora, just trust me.” But the man I’d built a life with looked like a stranger guarding a secret.
That night, neither of us slept.
What happened next changed everything…
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