Rancher Jack’s morning began like any other—coffee in hand, boots pressing into dry soil. But when he reached his cornfield, his chest tightened. Overnight, the stalks had withered, and scattered across the earth were smooth, pale eggs unlike anything he had ever seen. Instinct told him to crush them, but his daughters begged him to wait.
Unease soon spread across the farm. The chickens refused to leave their coop, and one vanished without a sound. The pigs paced nervously, snouts to the air, as if sensing something unseen. By nightfall, a low hum rolled from the fields, deep and steady, rattling the windows and Jack’s nerves.
Then the signs grew darker. A barn cat limped home, trembling and wide-eyed, as if it had touched something forbidden. That afternoon, Jack’s youngest tugged at his sleeve, whispering that the eggs were moving. Against his better judgment, he followed her into the brittle rows.
By sundown, dozens of shells glowed faintly, each pulse syncing with the hum. Jack knew then—the land was no longer his. Something older had claimed it, and when those eggs opened, the world would change forever.
