I never believed in signs—not after Colleen died. The doctors called it an accident. I called it the end of faith. Now, standing at the edge of my cornfield, I see the first one: a perfect circle, flattened stalks forming a pattern too precise for vandals.

Six months ago, I was a priest. Now, I’m just a farmer with two kids and a house full of silence. Morgan’s asthma keeps him up at night. Bo leaves glasses of water everywhere—‘for the invisible people,’ she says. Merrill sleeps on the couch, a failed ballplayer with a bat he still swings in the backyard.

Last night, something moved in the corn. I saw it—tall, dark, gone before I could scream. The baby monitor crackled with clicks. Not static. Language.

Tonight, the news shows footage from Brazil. A creature, green-skinned, eyes like pits, vanishing into the trees. People are calling it an invasion.

I don’t know what’s coming. But I know this: the signs were left for a reason. And if there’s a plan, then maybe… maybe I wasn’t abandoned after all.

The radio crackles: ‘All major cities under observation. No contact. No demands.’

Morgan looks at me, eyes wide. ‘Dad… what do we do?’