Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest inside Amelia. She slumped on the dusty attic floor, a forgotten corner of her grandmother’s house she’d been reluctantly clearing. A glint of metal caught her eye. Beneath a pile of moth-eaten blankets, a rusted metal box. It was a time capsule. She traced the tarnished latch, her fingers numb. Inside, a faded photograph of herself at fifteen, a shy smile gracing her face. She remembered nothing of burying it. A bitter taste coated her mouth.

The accompanying letter, penned in a childish scrawl, spoke of dreams: a career in marine biology, a loving family. Amelia crumpled the paper in her fist. The ocean was a distant, painful memory, and the emptiness of her apartment echoed the vastness of the life she hadn’t built. Her throat tightened.