box

It was a perfectly ordinary day. Nothing foreshadowed anything out of the ordinary: you were sitting on the couch, drinking tea, mindlessly scrolling through your social media feed. Outside, the sun was setting, and a dog was barking somewhere in the distance. It was a typical Tuesday evening, like hundreds you'd had before.

And then the doorbell rang.

You weren't expecting guests. You hadn't even ordered delivery. But the bell rang insistently, demandingly—once, and then died away.

You walked up to the door and looked through the peephole: no one there.

Opened.

A medium-sized cardboard box, taped shut with gray tape, sat on the threshold. Your name was written neatly on the top, in black pen. And just below it, a single word: "Here."

You bent down to pick up the box, and at that moment, a voice came from inside. Muffled, but distinct, as if someone was sitting in the box, waiting to be noticed. A voice came from inside.

"Hello? Is anyone there? Is anyone there?"

The voice didn't sound scared, but rather surprised. As if the man had just woken up and was trying to figure out where he was.

What are you going to do now?