I hadn’t slept in days. The Chicago business conference had dragged on, each presentation blending into the next until I couldn’t take it anymore. Three years of marriage, and lately, Ben and I had been like ships passing in the night, him with his investment banking and me with my consulting work. When my last meeting finished early, I decided to surprise him with an early return.

“You’re really skipping the closing ceremony?” my colleague Linda asked, watching me pack my laptop. “The VP’s giving the keynote. Could be good for your promotion.”

I zipped my bag with finality. “For once, my marriage comes first. Ben and I haven’t had a real conversation in weeks.”

“Regina, putting love before career?” she smiled. “Must be serious.”

“It is.” I checked my phone, calculating times. “If I leave now, I can catch the 6 p.m. flight and surprise my hubby.”

“Go get your man,” Linda winked. “But text me when you land. These surprise returns don’t always go as planned.”

If only she knew how right she’d be.

The setting sun cast long shadows across our front lawn as I wearily pulled into the driveway after a long, exhausting flight. My hands trembled slightly as I killed the engine. The house stood quiet, warm lights glowing behind drawn curtains.

Something felt off the moment I stepped inside. The house was eerily quiet. Through the kitchen window, I could see dirty dishes in the sink — so unlike my usually meticulous husband.

“Ben?” I called softly, letting myself in. No answer.

The house felt different somehow. Mail was scattered across the coffee table, including several official-looking envelopes marked “URGENT.”

A half-empty cup of coffee with a lipstick-like ring of dried coffee around its rim sat beside Ben’s laptop.

Assuming he was holed up in his office as usual, I decided to check on my garden first. The tomatoes should have ripened by now, and tending to them would help me unwind after the flight.

But as I approached the garden doors and stepped into the backyard, I FROZE.

Ben stood in the middle of our vegetable garden, between the tomato plants he’d been so proud of just weeks ago. His shirt was stained dark with sweat and his sleeves rolled up as he dug into the earth like a man possessed.

But it wasn’t his frantic movements that made my blood run cold. It was the LARGE, OBSIDIAN-BLACK EGG sitting beside him.

The thing was enormous, at least two feet tall, its surface gleaming like polished glass under the evening light. As I watched, frozen, Ben kept glancing at it between shovel loads, his movements growing more desperate.

“Just a little deeper,” I heard him mutter. “Has to be deep enough to bury this thing.”

My hand flew to my mouth. Was this really happening? I blinked hard, convinced I was hallucinating from travel exhaustion. But the scene remained unchanged — my husband, digging what looked like a grave for some alien artifact in our backyard.

“Ben?” I called out softly, careful not to startle him.

He whirled around, shovel clattering against something metal in the hole. His face, usually so composed, was pale with panic. A streak of dirt ran across his cheek, and I noticed his hands were shaking.

“REGINA?” He shrieked, his voice trembling and loud. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

“I came home early to surprise you.” I took a step closer, gravel crunching under my feet. The egg seemed to pulse in the lamplight, drawing my eyes. “Though I think I’m the one who’s surprised. What is THAT thing?”

“It’s NOTHING.” His words came too fast, too sharp. He moved to stand between me and the egg. “Reggie, just go inside, honey. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Nothing? Ben, I don’t think that’s ‘NOTHING.’ What is it? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later. Please go inside.”

“Later?” I gestured at the hole he’d been digging. “You’re burying something that looks like it came from a sci-fi movie in our garden at sunset, and you want me to wait for an explanation?”

Ben ran his fingers through his hair, leaving streaks of dirt across his forehead. His eyes darted between me and the street as if expecting someone.

“Please, Regina. Trust me on this. I’m just doing what needs to be done. I’m handling it.”

“Handling what exactly?” My voice rose. “Because from where I’m standing, my husband is either having some kind of breakdown or—”

“I said I’m handling it!” The force in his voice made me step back. In three years of marriage, I’d never heard him shout.

“Fine.” I turned toward the house, tears stinging my eyes. “Handle it yourself. Just like you’ve been handling everything else lately.”

“Reggie, wait—” He reached for me, but I pulled away.

“Don’t. Just… don’t.”

Sleep evaded me that night. Ben never came to bed, and the couch creaked periodically with his restless movements. Around 3 a.m., I heard the back door open and close. Through the bedroom window, I watched him check on the place where he’d buried the mysterious egg, pacing around it like a sentry.

What’s wrong with him? What is he hiding from me?

Morning came too quickly. I waited until Ben’s car disappeared down the street before grabbing the garden shovel. My hands trembled as I approached the freshly turned earth. I HAD TO DIG UP THAT THING!

“What are you hiding, Ben?” I whispered, pushing the shovel into the soft dirt.

It took 20 minutes of digging before I hit something solid. The egg was surprisingly light when I unearthed it, though my arms shook with the effort.

Up close, its surface felt wrong — not like shell, but like… plastic? I twisted it slightly, and to my shock, it separated in the middle like some oversized Easter egg.

Empty. Completely empty except for more layers of black plastic.

“Regina?” Someone called out from behind.

I jumped, nearly dropping the egg. Our elderly neighbor, Mr. Chen, peered over the fence, his eyes fixed on the object in my hands.

“I saw someone in your garden late last night,” he said slowly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I said quickly, hiding the egg behind me. “Just… gardening.”

His expression said he didn’t believe me, but he nodded politely and disappeared. I waited until I heard his door close before examining the egg more closely. The craftsmanship was impressive, but it was definitely artificial. What had Ben gotten himself into?

My mind raced through possibilities. This wasn’t just about a buried object. It was about Ben’s bizarre behavior and the way he was terrified when he saw me home early.

Something bigger was happening. Something that made my usually steady-handed husband dig like a madman in our backyard.

With trembling fingers, I wrapped the egg in an old blanket and tucked it behind the lawn equipment in our garage. It was out of sight, but not out of mind.

“Think, Regina, think,” I muttered, pacing the concrete floor. “Maybe this was some elaborate joke? A midlife crisis? Or something far more sinister?”

I dragged myself to the car, hoping work might distract me from this madness.

The radio clicked on automatically as I started the engine. The news anchor’s voice cut through my fog of exhaustion, making my blood run cold:

“Breaking news: Local authorities have uncovered a massive counterfeit operation targeting antique collectors. The scammers sold fake antiques, including unique black egg-shaped plastic containers, to unsuspecting buyers. Total losses are estimated in the millions…”

My coffee cup slipped from my fingers, splashing across the dashboard. The pieces started falling into place. That evening, I placed the egg on our kitchen table and waited. When Ben walked in, his briefcase hit the floor with a thud.

“Reggie, I-I can explain—”

“How much did you pay for this thing?” I cut him off.

He sank into a chair, his shoulders slumped. “Fifteen thousand.”

“Jesus, Ben.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” His voice cracked. “This guy at work, he said he knew someone selling rare artifacts. Said the egg was some ancient fertility symbol that would triple in value within a year.”

He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I used our savings. I was going to sell it and take you on that European trip you’ve always wanted.”

“The trip we’ve been saving for? That we’ve talked about for years?” My voice quavered. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“By gambling our savings on some stranger’s promise?”

“I know, I know.” He slumped forward. “When I realized it was fake, I couldn’t face you. Couldn’t admit I’d thrown away our money on a plastic egg.”

“We’ll figure this out,” I said, moving around the table to take his hand. “But no more secrets, okay? We’re supposed to be partners.”

“I filed a police report this morning,” Ben added. “They said we’re not the only ones. Apparently, this guy’s been targeting young professionals and antique collectors, playing on their financial stress.”

I squeezed his fingers. “I don’t need expensive trips or ancient artifacts. I just need my husband to talk to me, even when things get hard. Especially when things get hard.”

“What should we do with it?” Ben gestured at the egg, still gleaming mockingly in the kitchen light.

I studied it for a moment. “Maybe we’ll plant it in the garden for real. Right next to those tomatoes you’ve been trying to grow.”

“As a reminder of what not to do?” A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

“As a reminder that the only thing we need to grow is our trust in each other.” I leaned against him. “And maybe as a conversation piece. ‘Hey, want to hear about the time my husband buried a fake artifact in our backyard?!’”

Ben’s laugh was shaky but real. “I love you, Reggie. Even when I’m an idiot.”

“Lucky for you, I love idiots.” I kissed his forehead. “Now, let’s figure out how to get our money back. Together this time.”

Here’s another story: I saved a little girl from danger and when I escorted her to her grandmother’s mansion, my heart stopped cold. On the wall hung an old photo of a man who looked just like me.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.

It was one of those bitter January afternoons, the kind where the cold feels personal, sinking into every layer you wear, including your bones, and biting at your face like you’d wronged it. I’d just wrapped up errands when I decided to take a moment to be grateful for all I had. I didn’t know I was about to be a blessing to someone else.

I had just finished grocery shopping and picking up my husband’s dry cleaning when I walked past St. Peter’s Church and decided to step inside for a few quiet moments of reflection. I don’t even remember what made me stop there, maybe it was the need for stillness, a break from the noise of my everyday life.

As I stepped up to the stone entrance, I noticed him sitting at the foot of the steps.

The man looked no older than thirty. His coat was threadbare, his head bare to the cold wind, and his fingers—stiff and red—fumbled helplessly at his shoes, which were falling apart. It wasn’t just that they were worn; the soles were hanging on by sheer will, held together by makeshift pieces of twine.

I hesitated. I’m not proud of that moment, but there’s something about seeing suffering that makes you second-guess stepping in. What if he’s dangerous? What if he doesn’t want my help?

But then he looked up.

His face was gaunt and wind-chapped, but his eyes — deep, brown, and hollow — stopped me in my tracks. There was something fragile about him, like one more bad day might break him completely.

I couldn’t walk past, no matter how doubtful I was or how hard I tried. Something about him struck a chord and kept me in place. I crouched beside him, my knees protesting as the freezing stone bit through my jeans.

“Hi there,” I said softly. “Please let me help with those shoes.”

He blinked at me with his red, tired, and bloodshot eyes that still held a spark of hope. Startled, as if he wasn’t used to someone noticing him at all, he replied, “You don’t have to —”

“Let me,” I cut in, firm but gentle. I dropped my bag beside me and pulled off my gloves. My fingers immediately stung from the cold, but it didn’t matter. I untied the knotted string holding his shoe together and tried to fasten it more securely.

He was quiet as I worked, watching me with something I couldn’t place — gratitude, maybe, or disbelief. When I finished, I pulled the scarf from my shoulders. It was my favorite one, a thick gray knit my husband, Ben, had given me years ago.

I hesitated for just a second before draping it over his shoulders. “Here. This’ll help.”

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. I wasn’t done…

“Wait here,” I told him. Before he could protest, I darted across the street to a little corner café, where I bought the largest cup of hot soup they had, along with tea. When I returned, his hands were trembling as he accepted it.

I took a pen and scrap of paper from my bag, scribbled down my address, and pressed it into his hand.

“If you ever need a place to stay,” I said quietly, “or someone to talk to — come find me.”

He stared at the paper, his brow furrowing. “Why?” he asked hoarsely. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because everyone needs someone,” I replied. “And right now, you need someone.”

His eyes shone for a brief second before he nodded silently and looked back down at the steaming cup of soup in his hands. “Thank you,” he whispered.

I left him there, though every part of me wanted to linger. As I walked back to my car, I looked over my shoulder once, just to see him again. He was sipping the soup slowly, his shoulders hunched against the wind. I never even asked his name and never thought I’d see him again.

Ten years passed. Life rolled on the way it does — steadily, with little moments of joy and heartache, with work, friends, family, and routines. My husband and I had celebrated twenty-two years of marriage. Our children, Emily and Caleb, were now teenagers, with our daughter about to graduate high school.

Caleb was firmly in the throes of fourteen-year-old sarcasm. Life was full and exhausting, like it is for most families. It was a Tuesday evening when the knock came at the door. I was sitting in the living room, sipping some tea and flipping through bills, while Caleb shouted about losing his video game upstairs.

When I opened the door, I froze.

A police officer stood on the porch, his uniform pristine, his face serious. My heart lept into my throat! My first thought was my children. Had something happened at school? An accident?

“Good evening, ma’am,” the officer said. “Are you Anna?”

“Yes, is something the matter?” I managed. My voice trembled as my mind spun through every worst-case scenario.

He pulled something out of his pocket—a photograph—and held it out to me. “Have you seen this man, ma’am?”

I frowned as I stared at the photo. It was grainy and slightly bent, but I knew immediately. It was him. The man from the church steps. The scarf, the shoes — it was all there. It was a decade later and I could still remember him clearly!

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Who… who is he?”

The officer smiled then, soft and warm. “Ma’am,” he said, “it’s me.”

“You?” I whispered.

He nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “You saved me that day.”

I leaned against the doorframe for support, my mind reeling. “What happened to you? After the church?”

He let out a slow breath, his hands clasping together like he was holding onto something fragile. “After you left, I sat there for a long time. I think I just couldn’t believe someone had seen me — really seen me. You didn’t just give me soup or a scarf; you gave me hope.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “But how did you — how did you turn things around?”

He smiled faintly. “That paper you gave me? The one with your address? I didn’t come to your house then, but I kept it. I took it to the pastor of that church and asked him to take a photo of me as I was. I knew one day I’d try to find you and wanted to have a picture of my homeless period to help jog your memory when I did.”

He continued, “The pastor also helped me call my aunt — the only family I had left. He forwarded the photo from his phone to hers. She was so shocked, thought I was dead.”

“I was homeless for years. My mother had passed away when I was twenty. After her death, my father brought a new woman into the house. My stepmother wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t my mother, and I couldn’t handle it,” he explained.

“I left home, thinking I could make it on my own but life didn’t go as planned. I found work, but it was never enough for rent, and I eventually ended up on the streets. That day at the church, I… I couldn’t even put my shoes on properly because my hands were so cold. Then you came along.”

“When you helped me with my shoes, gave me that soup, tea, and your address, it was like my late mother was telling me not to give up. That moment gave me the push I needed and that’s when I decided to contact my aunt.”

His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “She took me in. It wasn’t easy. I had to get an ID, find a job, and fight through addiction. But I kept your address and this photo in my wallet as a reminder. I didn’t want to let you down.”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was tight, tears welling in my eyes.

“I worked my way up,” he continued. “Eventually, I applied to the police academy. I graduated six years ago and tracked you down because I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me?” I choked out. “I didn’t do anything.”

He shook his head, his eyes kind but firm. “You did more than you know. You saw me when I felt invisible. You gave me something to fight for.”

We stood there, the cold air biting at my cheeks, but I didn’t feel it. He held out his hand with a smile for a handshake, but I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around him, and he hugged me back like a son would hug his mother!

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He grinned, a real, radiant smile. “I do. It’s in my drawer at home. I’ll never get rid of it.”

We laughed softly, and I realized my tears had spilled over. “You’ve come so far,” I said.

“I wouldn’t have without you,” he replied simply.

That night, I sat in my living room holding the photograph he’d left with me. Ben had returned from working late with our daughter who had extra classes and now sat beside me, his hand wrapped around mine, as I told him everything — the church, the soup, the address I’d scribbled all those years ago.

“It’s incredible,” my husband said quietly. “You gave him a second chance.”

I shook my head. “No. He gave it to himself. I just held the door open.”

As I looked at the photo again, I couldn’t help but wonder how many other people were sitting on cold steps, feeling invisible, waiting for someone to notice them. I vowed to myself to do whatever little I could for the next homeless person I came across.

Sometimes, it doesn’t take much — just a scarf, some soup, or a few words of kindness. And sometimes, those tiny moments ripple further than you could ever imagine.

If that story warmed your heart, then you’ll love this next one about a fiancé who is ready to meet his girlfriend’s family for the first time, seeking their approval. The man came across a homeless older guy at the airport who was more than what he seemed.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.