I came home early from my business trip to surprise my husband. But instead of a warm welcome, I found him in the garden, drenched in sweat and burying a large black egg. He wouldn’t tell me the truth, so I dug deeper myself. What I found sent my heart racing. I hadn’t slept in days. The Chicago business conference had dragged on, each presentation blending into the next until I couldn’t take it anymore. Three years of marriage, and lately, Ben and I had been like ships passing in the night, him with his investment banking and me with my consulting work. When my last meeting finished early, I decided to surprise him with an early return.

“You’re really skipping the closing ceremony?” my colleague Linda asked, watching me pack my laptop. “The VP’s giving the keynote. Could be good for your promotion.” I zipped my bag with finality. “For once, my marriage comes first. Ben and I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks.” “Regina, putting love before career?” she smiled. “Must be serious.” “Go get your man,” Linda winked. “But text me when you land. These surprise returns don’t always go as planned.”

If only she knew how right she’d be. The setting sun cast long shadows across our front lawn as I wearily pulled into the driveway after a long, exhausting flight. My hands trembled slightly as I killed the engine. The house stood quiet, warm lights glowing behind drawn curtains.

Something felt off the moment I stepped inside. The house was eerily quiet. Through the kitchen window, I could see dirty dishes in the sink — so unlike my usually meticulous husband. “Ben?” I called softly, letting myself in. No answer. The house felt different somehow. Mail was scattered across the coffee table, including several official-looking envelopes marked “URGENT.” A half-empty cup of coffee with a lipstick-like ring of dried coffee around its rim sat beside Ben’s laptop. Assuming he was holed up in his office as usual, I decided to check on my garden first. The tomatoes should have ripened by now, and tending to them would help me unwind after the flight.

But as I approached the garden doors and stepped into the backyard, I FROZE. Ben stood in the middle of our vegetable garden, between the tomato plants he’d been so proud of just weeks ago. His shirt was stained dark with sweat and his sleeves rolled up as he dug into the earth like a man possessed. But it wasn’t his frantic movements that made my blood run cold. It was the LARGE, OBSIDIAN-BLACK EGG sitting beside him.

The thing was enormous, at least two feet tall, its surface gleaming like polished glass under the evening light. As I watched, frozen, Ben kept glancing at it between shovel loads, his movements growing more desperate. “Just a little deeper,” I heard him mutter. “Has to be deep enough to bury this thing.” My hand flew to my mouth. Was this really happening? I blinked hard, convinced I was hallucinating from travel exhaustion. But the scene remained unchanged — my husband, digging what look