11
Author: Elijah Porter
They buried the time capsule fifty years ago. Class of 2037.
We opened it today for the school’s centennial. Inside were the usual things: phones, photos, letters. And one thing that wasn’t supposed to be there.
A metal cube with my name engraved on it.
When I touched it, it opened itself. A hologram of me flickered out, older, voice shaking.
“Don’t go to the North Shore on June 8th,” it said. “Please.”
The message ended.
I checked the date. June 8th is tomorrow. And I was planning to go surfing with my friends.
I don’t believe in time travel. But I also don’t believe in coincidences that breathe.
