Barnaby’s Last Gift

A father’s final legacy bonds with the wrong man...or the right one.

Henry Mason sat in his living room, perplexed as to who would have sent him anything, especially a parcel to his new apartment. No one knew his address yet. He had moved to the quiet brick complex barely three days ago, hoping for a fresh start after leaving behind a job, a toxic relationship, and a city that had too many memories.

The package rested on his coffee table like an accusation.

Brown paper wrapping. Twine tied in careful knots. No return address. His address written clearly, but the name beneath it was not his.

Jacob Evers.

Henry frowned. “Great. A mail disaster already.”

With a sigh, Henry leaned forward and picked it up again, turning it over as if answers might appear on the other side. Nothing.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “only one way to figure it out.”

He grabbed a letter opener from a nearby stack of unopened bills and slid it beneath the paper wrapping. The blade caught unexpectedly, slipping against the tight twine. Henry jerked his hand back.

“Ow!”

A thin red line opened across his finger. Blood welled immediately.

“Seriously?”

He stood quickly, grabbing paper towel from the kitchen and wrapping it around his finger until the bleeding slowed. Once satisfied, he returned to the couch, mildly annoyed, but still curious.

The paper came away easily now, tearing in long strips. Beneath it sat a polished wooden box, dark and smooth, its surface etched with faint swirling patterns that looked almost...ancient. There were no hinges visible, no lock, just a lid fitted perfectly into place.

Henry unwrapped his hand again, flexing his fingers carefully, and lifted the lid.

Inside was an egg.

He blinked.

It was about the size of a football, burgundy in color with darker streaks running through it like veins. Jagged, claw shaped ridges protruded from the shell, giving it a fierce, almost armored appearance. Foam padding surrounded it, holding it securely in place.

“What...is this?” he whispered.

For a moment, he wondered if it was some kind of elaborate sculpture. A movie prop, maybe. Someone’s bizarre art delivery.

A folded letter peeked from the side of the box, slightly raised.

He should read that first.

Instead, curiosity won.

Henry reached in and carefully lifted the egg. It was noticeably warm, and heavier than it looked. He put the egg back in the protective foam then noticed the towel had slipped from his injured finger. Blood had begun to seep again.

A dark smear streaked across his skin.

Only when he saw a droplet forming did he realize.

“Oh, come on...”

The drop fell.

It struck the egg’s surface.

And everything changed.

The blood vanished instantly, absorbed into the shell as if swallowed.

The egg flared with brilliant crimson light.

Henry yelped as the shell began to vibrate violently, a deep humming filling the room. The air grew hot, prickling against his skin.

Then one of the claw like ridges snapped open.

A thin, needle like barb shot outward and pierced his finger.

“AH!”

Pain burned through his hand, not stinging, but searing, like fire racing through his veins. Before he could react, the barb retracted back into the egg, sealing seamlessly.

The shaking stopped.

The glow faded.

Silence fell over the apartment.

Henry stared at the egg, breathing hard.

“...Okay,” he said shakily. “That’s weird.”

The egg pulsed faintly once...twice...like a heartbeat.

A sudden exhaustion washed over Henry. He fell back onto the couch. Images flickered behind his eyes; mountains wreathed in mist, vast skies, fire cutting through clouds, and a sensation of flight so real his stomach lurched.

A voice, not heard, but felt echoed softly in his mind.

Bonded

Henry jerked upright. “Hello?”

No answer. Only warmth spreading up his arm, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

Heart racing, he remembered the letter and grabbed it with trembling hands.

The parchment inside looked impossibly old.

It read:

Jacob, my dear boy,

This has been passed down through our family hoping to find a bonding mate. I pray it is you, if not, you are to protect the egg until there is one worthy of a bond. Others will seek it. I love you, son. If you have received this, that means I'm dead, but know that I'll always be with you.

—Barnaby Evers

Henry stared at the signature, and swallowed hard. “Others?”

As if on cue, the egg cracked.

A distinct snap split the air.

A thin line spread across the shell, glowing from within. Another crack followed, then another, until pieces began to fall away into the box.

A small snout pushed through first, dark red scales gleaming like polished ruby. Two golden eyes blinked open, intelligent and curious.

The creature sneezed.

A puff of smoke drifted into Henry’s face.

He coughed, staring in disbelief as a tiny dragon struggled free, unfolding damp wings no larger than his hands. It chirped, a bright, questioning sound, and tilted its head at him.

Then it climbed clumsily onto his chest.

Warmth flooded his mind again.

Mine, the voice said, clearer now. Henry.

“You...know my name?”

The dragon purred, curling against him. Its tail wrapped around his wrist, and he felt their heartbeats sync, slowly, impossibly, becoming one rhythm.

Understanding bloomed inside him: emotions, instincts, flashes of hunger, curiosity, trust.

Bonded.

A laugh escaped him, half hysteria, half wonder. “I just wanted a normal life.”

The dragon yawned, revealing tiny teeth and a flicker of flame.

Outside, somewhere far below, a car alarm suddenly blared. Henry glanced toward the window, unease creeping in despite the warmth in his chest.

The letter’s warning echoed in his mind.

Others will seek it.

He looked down at the hatchling, now asleep against him, and felt a fierce protectiveness rise from somewhere he didn’t know existed.

“Well,” Henry said softly, “guess it’s you and me now.”

The dragon stirred, giving a satisfied trill.

Word Count: 979
Prompt: Write a story or poem about someone receiving a mis-delivered parcel by mail which tuns out to contain a baby. (This could be a human infant, or a kitten, or a baby alien, or a baby troll, or a hatching dinosaur egg, etc.) What does this person do with the unexpected arrival? (I leave it up to you whether or not we ever discover how the package came to be sent in the first place.)
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"