Gemotions

Dust motes danced in the single ray of sunlight piercing the dilapidated shed. Amelia kicked at the rusted metal of the recovered time capsule, a small, dented box. She didn't recognize the handwriting on the masking tape: “To Future Self! (Good luck, loser!)” Her jaw clenched. Years of digging through family history, tracing her lineage, and this was all she had?

Her fingers twitched as she pried open the lid. Inside, nestled amongst a few yellowed newspaper clippings and a pet rock (seriously?), was a crudely drawn stick figure captioned, “Amelia, the Dumbest.” She slammed the lid shut with a resounding clang, the shed's flimsy walls shaking. Her chest felt tight, constricted. She turned on her heel and marched out, leaving the capsule and its contents to the oblivion of the dusty floorboards.