The shovel bit into the earth with a satisfying crunch. Evelyn hadn’t even realized she was digging until the glint of metal caught her eye. It was a time capsule, a cheap tin box, half-rotted. She remembered nothing about the excavation, which felt odd, but she felt oddly satisfied seeing it. This whole suburban existence was a cosmic joke, and she supposed this box was a poorly aged punchline. She bent to pry it open, her lips curling into a thin, tight line.
Inside, nestled in damp, disintegrating newspaper, were a few items. A faded photograph of a smiling, younger version of herself, her eyes bright with a naiveté that grated against her now. A handwritten letter, sealed with a heart sticker. A small, tarnished silver locket. Evelyn ripped the letter open, eager to unravel the message, expecting nothing worthwhile.
The words were so filled with youthful optimism that Evelyn felt a cold, biting feeling, like a sudden winter wind. The younger version of herself, full of hopes and dreams, was a stranger. Evelyn tossed the letter to the ground, stomping on it and digging her heel into the words, enjoying the destruction. The locket she flung into the woods.