In the heart of yesterday's forgotten woods, a solitary box floated three inches above the forest floor.

"It's just an optical illusion," Sarah said, but the box bore an inscrutable sigil that seemed to pulse like a heartbeat.

Ted, skeptical by nature yet curious by design, poked it with a stick. The box responded by emitting a gentle hum, resonating with the unvoiced fears of squirrels nearby.

"Do you hear that? It's calling us," whispered Jane, who had always believed in signs, even if they were mostly signs for irrational parking.

As they gathered closer, the air shimmered as if the box opened a portal to dimensions unseen except by those who dared dream in color.

They never opened the box—some things are left unopened, like the mysteries of a barista's secret menu.

The hum faded, but the vision of the box lingered, echoing in their minds like a pet rock's silent gratitude.