Health inspectors pulled nearly 20,000 eggs from store shelves—most cracked, expired, or filthy. The condemned batch was hauled to the landfill, dumped behind barbed wire like common trash. Rain split the cartons open within days. Birds pecked at the contents; the rest vanished into the rot.
By summer, everyone had forgotten.
Then, one morning, the landfill caretaker noticed something strange. The crows weren’t circling their usual feeding grounds. He moved closer—and stopped cold.
The garbage was *alive*.
Tiny golden fluffballs tumbled over moldy potatoes and crushed yogurt cups. They chirped, scrambled, and darted between tires, plastic bottles, and shattered furniture. *Chicks.* Hundreds of them.
No one could explain it. The eggs had been left for dead—no warmth, no mother, no chance. Yet here they were, thriving in the filth.
Word spread fast. Crowds gathered, calling it a miracle. Scientists scratched their heads; the landfill was no incubator. Locals whispered a new name for them: *the chicks from nowhere.*
Some took the hatchlings home out of pity. Others swore they were a sign. The city never got answers. But one thing was certain—these weren’t just chicks.
They were something born from the impossible.
