Gemotions

The ornate garden was eerily silent. The roses, in full bloom, seemed to watch her with unseen eyes. Clara held the trowel in a white-knuckled grip, her knuckles as white as the marble statues scattered throughout the grounds. She felt a profound disquiet, a feeling of being watched, judged. She didn't like it.

This time capsule, exhumed during routine maintenance, was a puzzle. She didn't remember burying it, but her handwriting was unmistakable. Her head swam. The pressure in her chest was immense. She kept glancing at the house.

Her digging was hesitant, slow. The earth yielded reluctantly. When she finally uncovered the container, a delicate porcelain box, her hands started to shake. The feeling that she was on the verge of uncovering something deeply personal filled her with dread. She lifted the lid, barely able to breathe.