The package was sitting on the porch when I opened the door that morning, a plain brown box, the size of a book, resting perfectly at the centre of the welcome mat, as if someone had taken care to place it just so.
There was no delivery truck pulling away, no footsteps on the path: just the breeze and the quiet.
I bent down to pick it up, noting the label: our full names, our exact address. No return information, no brand logo. The sticker looked printed, clean, no handwriting. Something about that made me hesitate.
"Chris?" I called over my shoulder. "Did you order something?"
He stepped out of the hallway, rubbing his forearm with a towel from his morning workout. "Nope. You?"
I shook my head slowly. There was no reason to think it was anything more than a misdelivery, but something in my chest pinched anyway.
We stood there for a beat, both staring at it in my hands like it might tick.
