Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows of the old Victorian house, mirroring the storm brewing inside Thomas. He'd been digging a new flower bed when his spade struck something metallic. A time capsule. He stared at it, the mud clinging to the lid. It had his name scratched into the metal.

He pried it open, the hinges groaning in protest. The contents: a faded letter to his future self, a small wooden carving of a bird, and a collection of dried leaves pressed between the pages of a book on botany. He remembered the bird, a gift from his grandfather, the leaves, a failed experiment.

Reading the letter, his breath hitched. The young Thomas had dreams, audacious ones, brimming with life. Now, the old man stared at his reflection in the muddy window. Had he lived up to those ambitions? The quiet, unfulfilled man in the mirror was a painful answer. He closed the capsule, a bitter taste on his tongue.