Gemotions

The shovel struck something hard. Amelia, hunched over the unearthed patch of her grandmother's rose garden, felt a tremor run through her. It wasn't bone, thank God, but a heavy metal box, encrusted with mud. She swore softly, wiping sweat from her brow. She hadn't even remembered planting roses, let alone burying a time capsule. Doubt gnawed at her, a constant whisper she tried to ignore. She lifted the lid, and the scent of aged paper and faded photographs assaulted her. Her hand trembled as she pulled out a letter, addressed to “Future Me.”

Her own handwriting stared back. Inside, she’d detailed her aspirations, her hopes. All the things she was supposed to achieve. But reading it, she felt a hollow ache. The girl in the letter was vibrant, full of potential. Amelia felt only a deep-seated inertia, a dread of not measuring up to expectations, a clinging to the familiar comfort of her mother’s home.