Gemotions

The dusty, dented tin can felt heavy in Mark's trembling hands. He remembered the feeling of the metal, sharp edges cutting into his skin, the smell of the damp earth clinging to it. But he didn’t remember actually putting it there. His mouth felt dry, and he kept swallowing, trying to moisten his tongue.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. The sun seemed blindingly bright. He could swear the air thickened, heavy and suffocating. His vision blurred at the edges. He squinted at the scratched inscription on the lid - "To Me, From Me".

He let the can clatter to the ground. "This isn't real," he muttered, his voice cracking. He started to hyperventilate. The garden, usually a source of peace, was now a threat. He needed to get away, to escape whatever this was.