Gemotions

The rusted metal box lay half-buried in the overgrown rose garden. Elias knelt, brow furrowed, as he pried it open with a trowel. He didn't recognize the handwriting on the lid, looping and childish, scrawled with a crayon he didn’t own. A tremor went through him, a sudden chill despite the humid summer air.

Inside, nestled amongst yellowed newspaper clippings, was a small, crudely painted wooden bird, its eye a button that seemed to stare right at him. He backed away, a prickling sensation crawling over his skin. Where had this come from?

A photograph lay beneath the bird. It was of him, much younger, maybe ten years old, smiling, holding a fishing rod. He never went fishing. His hands trembled as he picked up the photo. It was *him*. The air seemed to tighten in his chest.

The last item was a sealed letter, addressed to “Me, in the Future.” He hesitated, then ripped it open. The handwriting was identical to the box’s inscription. The letter contained only a single sentence: “They are watching you.” Elias dropped the letter, the paper fluttering to the ground. He began to pace, the garden suddenly feeling vast and menacing.