“Build your workshop. We’ll be watching.”

Desperate amateur. That’s what they’d called him.

It was a trap. He knew it. But the promise of five thousand dollars cash—just for showing up—had a way of smoothing over common sense.

Hayden touched the box. It was warm. It had no seams, no lock, no visible way to open it. The radio voice crackled through a blown speaker: “Open it by dawn. Fail, and you lose nothing but your pride. Succeed… and we’ll talk about real money.”

He didn’t know who “we” were. Maybe ghosts. Maybe a prank. Maybe something stranger. But as he walked out into the cold morning, the finch rode on his shoulder, and for the first time in years, Hayden smiled.