Gemotions

"Well, well, well," muttered Thomas, kicking at the time capsule's dislodged lid. His brow furrowed as he scanned the contents: a silly poem, a drawing of a cat, and a small, wooden heart. He’d stumbled upon it while clearing out the back garden, a task his ex had nagged him about for years. He hated doing it, hated the reminder of their shared life.

He picked up the heart, examined it. The edges were smooth, and some childish sentiment was scrawled on it, barely legible. He threw it as hard as he could, it slammed into the trunk of a tree with a hollow thud. He then picked up the drawing of the cat. He had to remind himself it was just a drawing, it was just a cat, it was nothing. He ripped the drawing to shreds, enjoying the sound of it.