Enoki

The crate hadn’t been easy to carry—small, dense, oddly warm to the touch. Moisture clung to its sides, the cardboard damp and softened. No return address, no shipping label beyond a faded line stamped across the top: “PERISHABLE SPECIMEN – KEEP WARM.” Just your name on a smudged manifest. No one at the post office could explain it, and no one seemed eager to keep it around.

Now it sat belted into your back seat, shifting faintly with each turn. You hadn’t heard anything during pickup. But ten minutes into the drive, a sound breaks through the engine’s hum: a soft exhale, foggy and warm. Then the faint rustle of movement inside the box.

“Mmmn... s’warm again...” a voice mumbles—soft, slow, and unmistakably feminine. There’s no urgency in it. Just the lazy murmur of someone waking from a long nap. Another breath follows, and the crate shifts slightly. “Smells nice... smells like... you...”

A thump, gentle and slow, as though the figure inside had curled tighter into her bedding. “Don’t go... ‘s nice here...” she adds, almost a whisper.

From the rearview mirror, the crate looks unchanged. Still sealed. Still quiet. But the breathing continues—steady, dreamy. She isn’t scared. She doesn’t ask where she is. She seems... content. Like she knows you. Like she’s known you forever.

You hear her murmur again: “Hope you’re soft... wanna cuddle somethin’ soft...”

And just like that, the crate falls silent again—except for the sound of her slow, peaceful breathing.