Rancher Jack’s morning began like any other. With coffee in hand and boots crunching over dry earth, he made his usual rounds. But the routine shattered when he reached the cornfield—and stopped cold.

His crops were dead.
The once-green field lay withered, and the soil was littered with smooth, pale eggs, foreign and unnatural.

Startled, Jack reached for his shovel, instincts firing. But his daughters—fearful yet curious—pleaded with him to wait.

And then, strange things began.

The chickens, usually eager to roam, stayed huddled inside the coop. One disappeared completely. The pigs grew restless, snorting and pacing, reacting to something Jack couldn’t see.

Each night, a low humming drifted from the cornfield. It wasn’t wind. It wasn’t machinery. It was something… alive. The sound kept Jack up, chewing on unease.

Then the barn cat returned—injured and trembling, its eyes wide with fear. Jack found it beneath the old truck, too weak to flee, as if it had come too close to something it shouldn’t have.

Later that same day, Jack’s youngest daughter tugged at his sleeve.

“They’re moving,” she whispered.

He followed her to the field. The air felt heavier. His skin prickled.

And there they were:
The eggs were glowing. Faintly. Pulsing. Alive.

By sundown, Jack stood surrounded by them—dozens, maybe hundreds—each one slowly, silently stirring.

He didn’t know what was growing beneath the shells. He didn’t know if it was animal, alien, or something in between.

But one thing was clear:
The farm wasn’t just his anymore.

Something was awakening.
And nothing would ever be the same.