Gemotions

The rusted metal box was unearthed with a triumphant grunt. Elias, digging with a shovel borrowed from his neighbor (the one with the perpetually cheerful dog), spat on the dirt. He should have just let the stupid lawn grow weeds. Now he was sweaty, itchy, and this – whatever this was – was going to be another thing to fix. His jaw clenched as he pried the lid open. Inside, a faded photo of a smiling, younger him. He tossed it aside, a dismissive flick of the wrist.

He rummaged through the contents: a worn copy of a book he vaguely recognized, a baseball card, and a letter. He ripped the envelope open, his knuckles white. The loopy handwriting was unfamiliar, but the words… they were a sickening dose of optimism. "Dear Future Self," it began. He crumpled the paper, but the words echoed in his head, a constant, annoying hum. He kicked the time capsule back into the hole, then turned and stomped back toward the house. He imagined the neighbor's dog barking. Good.