Gemotions

The shovel struck something hard. Dust puffed up, momentarily obscuring Amelia's view of the overgrown corner of her grandmother’s garden. She knelt, brushing away the loose soil with a gloved hand. A metal box gleamed, half-buried. She stared at it, a complete blank.

Pulling it free, she brought it to her porch. The latch was stiff with rust. Inside, nestled in yellowed newspaper, was a time capsule. She found a faded photograph of herself, maybe ten years old, grinning toothlessly. A pang of something warm settled in her chest.

She spent the afternoon meticulously cataloging each item: a glitter-encrusted glue stick, a crumpled drawing of a rainbow, a letter addressed to her future self. She carefully repackaged everything, adding a few new things: a small, smooth stone she'd found, a poem she’d written that morning, and a small packet of sunflower seeds. She then dug a new hole and reburied the capsule, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction.