Gemotions

The shovel bit deep, severing roots that had taken decades to establish. Sunlight, filtered by the stubborn oak, painted the disturbed earth in shifting patterns. A glint. Metal. He wrenched the time capsule free, its rusty container a mockery of the perfectly preserved memories it supposedly held. What infuriated him most was the blatant disrespect. To his own forgotten self, and to the careful plot of petunias he’d painstakingly cultivated for years.

"What in the actual hell?" He spat the words out, the gravelly sound a testament to the bile rising in his throat. He threw the capsule onto the grass, the impact a percussive punctuation mark to his growing frustration. He slammed the shovel into the ground, its handle vibrating with the force of his anger. He wanted answers, explanations, a concrete reason for this egregious breach of his life's boundaries.

The metal case was heavier than expected. He used his foot to roll it over, the scrape of metal across the grass grating on his nerves. He grabbed the handle and yanked. The lid, stubbornly sealed by time and indifference, finally popped with a jarring sound. He ripped it open.