Gemotions

The rusted metal box, half-buried in the overgrown backyard, screamed of a forgotten past. Sarah slammed the shovel against it again, the clang echoing in the sudden silence. It was ridiculous. Utterly, completely absurd. She didn't remember doing this. Didn't remember burying a time capsule, certainly not in this godforsaken patch of weeds. Every memory of this house felt warped, like looking through funhouse mirrors.

A vein throbbed in her temple. She wrenched the lid open, ignoring the protesting groan of the hinges. Inside, a collection of banal trinkets – a faded photograph, a chipped ceramic dog, a handwritten note in a childish scrawl. *This is not real*, she thought, the words a cold mantra against the heat rising in her chest.

"Who even was I?" she muttered, kicking at a clump of dirt. The childish handwriting on the note was unfamiliar, the smiling face in the photograph a stranger. This entire discovery was an insult, a poorly executed joke.