At first glance, it didn’t look real.
Like something you’d scroll past too fast, then scroll back to because your stomach dropped a little.

The ground looked… wrong.
Not broken. Not damaged. Just unfamiliar in a way that made your brain itch.

People stared at their screens, zooming in.
Zooming in again.
As if that would somehow make it make sense.

The shapes were clustered together, half-buried, pale and swollen.
Smooth in some spots. Wrinkled in others.
The kind of texture you don’t want to imagine touching.

Someone commented, “Is this a joke?”
Someone else said, “Nope. This is how it starts.”

Within hours, the image was everywhere.
Group chats. Threads. Late-night DMs that just said, “Have you seen this?”

Because once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.
And your mind did what minds do best at 1 a.m.—it filled in the blanks.

They looked like eggs.
Not bird eggs. Not reptile eggs.
Something else. Something waiting.

Fans of sci-fi noticed immediately.
The resemblance was uncomfortable. Too close. Too familiar.

Those movies always begin quietly, don’t they?
Something strange in a place no one’s watching closely.
A detail everyone ignores… until it’s too late.

From certain angles, the objects looked almost alive.
As if the ground itself was breathing.
As if something inside was pressing outward.

People joked about hazmat suits.
Others weren’t joking at all.

A few users swore they could see “movement.”
Another claimed the surface looked “wet,” like skin.

And then there was the setting.
Not a lab. Not a city.
Just open land. Quiet. Ordinary.

That made it worse somehow.

Because if something impossible showed up in a city, at least someone would notice.
But here?
Who would even know if it changed overnight?

While the internet spiraled, the person standing closest to the scene… didn’t.

The farmer went about his day.
Fixing equipment. Talking with neighbors. Drinking tea.

When asked if he was concerned, he barely looked up.
Concerned about what?

That reaction alone fueled the panic.
Because calm can feel suspicious when everyone else is freaking out.

People began planning trips.
Not officially, of course.
Just “passing through” to see it for themselves.

Photos multiplied.
Close-ups. Wide shots. Side angles that somehow looked worse than the last.

The surface appeared coated in ice, trapping whatever shape lay beneath.
Like time had paused mid-transformation.

Some said it looked organic.
Others said it looked like something failed to grow properly.

A few joked that it was just “nature being weird.”
But even they kept scrolling back.

And still, no explanation came.

Hours passed.
Then days.

Speculation filled the silence.
Mutations. Parasites. Rare fungi. Something ancient waking up.

The internet loves a mystery.
Especially one that looks like it could bite.

Then, much later—after the theories had gone full sci-fi—the truth finally surfaced.

Not at the beginning.
Not when it would’ve calmed anyone down.

But right when curiosity peaked.

The shapes weren’t eggs.
They weren’t alive.
They weren’t new.

They were old.

Very old.

They were cabbages.

Left behind after harvest.
Forgotten. Or intentionally spared.

The winter had been mild.
Too mild to freeze them solid.

So they softened.
Collapsed in on themselves.
Lost their familiar shape.

Then the cold came suddenly.

Water near the surface froze.
The outer layers stiffened into strange, swollen shells.

What remained inside slowly broke down.
Returning to the soil the way plants always do.

Nothing hatched.
Nothing moved.

Just vegetables doing what vegetables do when nature gets unpredictable.

The farmer had known all along.
To him, it wasn’t eerie.
It was fertilizer.

But the timing was funny in a quiet, ironic way.
Because by the time the explanation arrived, the moment had already passed.

People had already booked trains.
Already posed for photos.

They stood at the edge of the field, half-laughing, half-disappointed.
Like kids who realized the haunted house was just plywood and fog.

And yet…
They still took pictures.

Because even knowing the truth didn’t erase the feeling.
The brief thrill.
That flicker of “what if.”

The shapes are still there for now.
Slowly collapsing. Melting back into the earth.

Tourists come and go.
Locals shrug.

Someone always asks if anything else strange has shown up lately.

The farmer smiles.
Says not yet.

And the ground stays quiet.