Gemotions

The shovel felt impossibly heavy. He’d barely slept in weeks. Each day bled into the next, a chaotic watercolor of deadlines and demands. He leaned on the handle, chest heaving, staring at the patch of disturbed earth in his backyard. The time capsule, apparently. He couldn’t recall ever digging a hole this deep, or even owning a shovel. The discovery had been a complete surprise, unearthed while he was frantically trying to repair a broken sprinkler head. A metal box, now dusted off, sat at his feet. His therapist would have a field day.

He picked at the lid, his fingers trembling. Inside, a collection of knick-knacks and letters. A faded photograph of a younger version of himself, smiling too brightly. A note scrawled on a napkin, the handwriting vaguely familiar. He didn't know the person in the photo. He felt a cold dread creep into his stomach. The past, as distant as it seemed, offered no comfort.