Owen hesitated, hand hovering over the soggy flap of the box. A faint rustle came from within, then stillness. He glanced at the others. Clara’s eyes were wide; Tom’s mouth was set in a tight line. “Be careful,” Tom murmured. “Could be anything in there.”
Owen nodded, slipping his fingers under the wet cardboard. It peeled apart with a damp tear. A clump of mud slid out first, then something soft moved beneath it; small, trembling, half-hidden. For a moment, no one spoke. The thing inside twitched again, coated entirely in thick brown sludge, indistinguishable beneath the grime. A fragile whimper escaped it, weak but alive.