The doorbell rang once, sharp and short, as if whoever pressed it didn’t want to be noticed.
Kenji froze at the sound. It was seven in the morning, and the street outside his small apartment in Japan was usually silent at that hour.
He stepped to the door and peered through the peephole. No one stood outside. Only a light mist drifting from the alley and the faint hum of bicycles from a far corner.
But something sat on the doorstep.
A small cardboard box. Plain. No label. No name.
His stomach tightened as he opened the door. The air was cold enough to make him shiver. He looked around once more—empty walkway, still railings, no footsteps fading away.
He crouched and picked up the box.
It was heavier than he expected.
Kenji set it on the kitchen table and stared at it. His mother was still asleep. She had worked late at the bookstore again. He didn’t want to wake her over something as strange as this.
He touched the tape across the top. It was clean, smooth, and perfectly placed, almost like a machine had done it. No creases. No fingerprints. No smudges.
A faint smell drifted from the cardboard—old paper, maybe… or something like a closed attic.
His phone buzzed. It was a message from his best friend, Yuta, asking if he was ready for school.
Kenji typed back:
Something weird just showed up at my door.
Before he could hit send, the phone flickered. The screen went black for a second. When it turned back on, the message was gone.
And the box had shifted.
He was sure of it. It now sat angled slightly to the left, as if someone had nudged it while he looked away. He swallowed hard and stepped back.
“What are you?” he whispered.
A creak came from inside. Soft. Like something adjusting its weight.
Kenji’s breath hitched.
He circled the table and pressed his hand gently to one side of the box. It felt warm. Warm—like something alive was inside.
His mother called his name from the hallway, making him jump. She walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It… was on the doorstep.”
She frowned. “But nobody delivers this early.”
Kenji nodded slowly.
His mother reached for the box.
“Wait—” he said, but too late.
The instant her fingers brushed the tape, the cardboard pulsed. A faint thud came from inside, like a heartbeat hitting the walls of the box.
She yanked her hand back. “Kenji, get away from that thing.”
A thin line formed across the tape as the top began to lift on its own. Not ripping. Not tearing. Rising—slowly, neatly—like an invisible hand was peeling it open.
Both of them backed up until their heels hit the wall.
The lid opened just a crack.
Something inside shifted.
A whisper slipped out. Not a voice. More like a breath that had learned to speak. A single word formed, quiet but clear:
“Kenji.”
His mother grabbed his arm.
The box tilted. One side lifted. Then… it slid off the table.
But it didn’t fall.
It landed on the floor without a sound, upright and still. The shadows near the doorway lengthened, drawing closer to it. The lights flickered once.
Then the box began to move.
It scraped against the tile, dragging itself inch by inch toward them.
“Out,” his mother whispered, pulling him toward the door. “Now.”
They ran. Kenji didn’t look back, but he heard it—the soft scrape-drag, scrape-drag following them through the hall.
They left the apartment and waited outside until noon. The landlord checked the place himself, insisting no animal could have gotten inside.
He found the kitchen untouched.
The table clean.
The floor spotless.
The box was gone.
Kenji tried to sleep that night, but every sound made him sit up. Cars passing. Pipes ticking. Even the wind brushing the balcony door sounded like something dragging cardboard.
At two in the morning, his phone buzzed.
A new message.
No contact name.
Just one sentence:
Delivery rescheduled. Please be home tomorrow morning.
And below it, a photo.
His doorstep.
Empty… except for a small cardboard box.
Waiting.
