Gemotions

Rain lashed against the corrugated iron roof of the shed as Elias wrestled with the rusted lid. He’d unearthed the thing in his late grandmother’s garden, a metal box caked in mud. Inside, a brittle photograph – him, at maybe eight, grinning widely beside a girl with pigtails. A girl he couldn't quite place, but whose smile sparked a strange, aching pull. He fumbled with the contents: a smooth, grey stone, a dried-up lipstick, a letter addressed to "My Future Self."

His hands trembled as he unfolded the delicate paper. The childish script detailed ambitions, hopes, a promise of a life filled with laughter. A life with *her*. The last line, smudged with what looked like tears, read, “I hope you remember the promise we made.” He slammed the lid shut, the sound echoing the hollowness that had settled in his chest, a weight that pressed down on his lungs. He wanted to scream.