Jam Jar

We buried a time capsule in a park. I dug it up last night at 2 AM.

It was his idea. Our one-year anniversary. A jam jar, a letter each, a handful of silly mementos. A cinema stub. A bottle cap. A photo booth strip. "Open in five years," he said, shoving it into the earth behind a bench, grinning like a child. "We'll be thirty, and we'll still be together, and we'll cry."

His name was Eli. We broke up at fourteen months. Not a dramatic ending. Just a quiet evaporation. Two people forgetting what they'd planned.

I couldn't stop thinking about the jar. Not because of the stub. Because of the letter. His handwriting. Whatever he'd written when he still thought we'd be thirty.

So I went, in the dark, with a trowel I borrowed from my neighbour. The park was empty. The bench was damp. I counted paces, like a very sad pirate.

The soil was loose. Too loose. Someone had dug here recently.

I found the jar. Lid slightly crooked. I opened it with shaking hands.

My letter was there. My handwriting. The cinema stub. The bottle cap. The photo strip.

His letter was gone.

In its place, a small square of paper, folded in half. Blue pen.

"Opened early. Couldn't wait. I'm sorry I read mine out loud to no one. I took it back, because it wasn't true anymore. Or maybe it was. — E."

He'd come first.

He'd read his promise.

And couldn't leave it here for me to find.