1.3.2 | Ovo

The rain started three minutes before the auctioneer’s gavel came down. Ovo 1.3.2—the last prototype—sat on a velvet turntable, its shell the color of a bruised plum, humming a frequency only children and dogs could hear.

That was the first night. The second night, I dreamed of a bridge collapsing in a city I’d never visited. The third night, a woman’s voice gave me the winning lottery numbers for a drawing that wouldn’t happen for another eight months. The fourth night, I dreamed of my own funeral. The casket was closed. No one cried. Someone had placed a single bruised plum on the lid. ovo 1.3.2

I called the number etched into its base. A recording picked up: “You have reached the Department of Temporal Artefacts. If you are hearing this message, you have already opened it. Please do not close your eyes.” The rain started three minutes before the auctioneer’s