Gemotions

"This isn't mine," Michael muttered, staring at the time capsule resting on his workbench. He'd been renovating his basement when his shovel struck metal. He’d never buried anything in his basement. The thought felt ridiculous.

He turned it over and over. The construction was amateur. He felt no sense of recognition. He rubbed his forehead, trying to remember if he’d had a guest recently, someone with a peculiar sense of humor. He lived alone.

He pried it open. Inside were a collection of old comic books, a handwritten letter signed with his own name, and a small, wooden carving of a bird. He felt a deep sense of disorientation. The letter spoke of dreams he could barely recall, aspirations he’d completely forgotten.