Seeds

The packet arrived without a return address, its paper thin and yellowed, the words Plant Immediately stamped in urgent red. Claire turned it over twice before opening it, half expecting a note, a mistake. There was nothing. Only a small cluster of black seeds, smooth and faintly warm in her palm.

It was the first day of spring. That felt like instruction enough.

She planted them in a neglected corner of her garden, pressing them into soil still cool from winter. By dusk, she had nearly forgotten them, distracted by the ordinary rhythm of her evening.

At dawn, something had grown.

Not a sprout. Not a stem. A hand.

It reached from the earth, pale and trembling, fingers curling as if grasping for memory. Claire stumbled back, heart hammering, but the hand did not retreat. More soil shifted. An arm followed. A shoulder, then a chest pulling in its first breath.

By noon, a man stood there, breathing hard, covered in dirt, eyes locked on hers.

“You planted me,” he said, voice raw. “Thank you.”

Claire swallowed. “Who are you?”

He smiled faintly.

“I don’t remember yet.”

Behind him, the soil cracked again, and more hands began to rise.