Gemotions

The sun beat down on the parched earth of the old playground. He tugged at his collar, the heat a physical manifestation of his simmering unease. He was supposed to be enjoying this, this family picnic, but he was trapped in this web of manufactured happiness, a forced facade of cheerfulness.

He stumbled across something buried near the swingset. A weathered plastic container. A time capsule. He stared at it, a dull ache thrumming in his temples. He didn’t remember ever burying it.

He pried it open, and a collection of trinkets spilled out. A small, tarnished silver charm bracelet. A tiny, dried flower. A note. “Remember the good times.” The words seemed to accuse him. He turned away, the bright laughter of his children grating on his ears.