Gemotions

The shovel scraped against something hard. Sarah’s breath hitched in her chest. She hadn’t expected to find anything. Just a patch of dirt in the overgrown backyard. A wave of nausea rolled over her as the metal bit into something metallic. She’d been avoiding this section of the garden for weeks. She’d told herself it was too sunny, too exposed. Now, with the sun beating down, and sweat beading on her forehead, she felt trapped.

She knelt, the shovel clattering to the ground. Her fingers, usually steady, fumbled with the clasp of the rusted metal box. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drummer in a silent concert. She paused, her hand hovering, and considered walking away, burying it again, pretending she'd never found anything.

She took a shaky breath and snapped it open. Inside, nestled in yellowed newspaper, was a photograph. A younger version of herself, smiling widely, holding a stuffed rabbit. Beside the photo was a small, sealed envelope. Her name, scrawled in a familiar but forgotten handwriting, was on the front.