The boss gave away jars of pickles his mother had made, and the whole office laughed.

But something felt… off.

The jar itself.

It looked old—but the bottom wasn’t smooth like it should have been.

I turned it over.

Nothing.

Maybe I was overthinking.

I opened another.

Then another.

When I reached the twelfth jar, I froze.

At the base, beneath a thin layer of dried clay, there were faint engravings.
I scratched gently.