Gemotions

The shovel struck something hard, a definite thud against the loam. Maya knelt, her hands trembling as she brushed away the loose dirt. A metal box, old and corroded, peeked out from the earth. Where was this? Her backyard? It felt… unfamiliar. A wave of nausea washed over her. She gripped her stomach, the cool metal strangely comforting. She didn’t recognize the box or the meticulous way it had been buried. Panic prickled at the edges of her vision.

She pulled the box out, the rusted hinges protesting with a screech. The air seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. Inside, nestled amongst yellowed newspaper, was a photograph. A younger version of herself, smiling brightly, clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat she couldn't silence. She couldn't remember owning a rabbit.

The note accompanying the photo was addressed to her, in her own handwriting, scrawled with a childish flourish. *Remember the good times.* The words seemed to mock her. A cold sweat slicked her palms. She sank to the ground, the box clattering beside her, and closed her eyes, trying to force a memory, any memory, to surface. Nothing.