"Time Capsule"

In the spring of 2025, construction workers digging beneath the old grounds of Hillside Elementary unearthed a rusted metal box, sealed tight and stamped with one thing: 1975. The local news showed up, kids crowded around, and Mrs. Lang, the school’s longest-serving teacher, gave a speech about history and memory.

They opened it with a crowbar.

Inside were things that didn’t make sense.

A sleek, glass rectangle that lit up when touched. A folded newspaper dated April 12, 2025, detailing an election that hadn’t happened yet. A USB stick, a smartwatch, a photo of a city skyline no one recognized—half-built towers and floating vehicles. And a note:

"To whoever finds this: don’t try to change it. You won’t be able to."

The town laughed it off. “A prank,” they said.

But Mrs. Lang didn’t laugh. She stared at the handwriting. It was hers.

She remembered the capsule. In 1975, she had helped bury it with her classmates. She had written a note. But not this note.

That night, she dug through her attic and found the photo album from that year. In it was a picture of the capsule, being buried. But something was off—the boy in the photo, the one sealing the box, had a smartwatch on his wrist.

She hadn’t seen it before.

The next day, the box was gone. Police blamed vandals.

But Mrs. Lang kept the note.

And every few weeks, she noticed things. Headlines that matched the 2025 paper. Conversations she remembered reading. A new building in town that looked oddly familiar.

She never told anyone what she feared.

Because the note wasn’t a warning. It was a promise.

"Don’t try to change it."

Jessica Maffei

@Jmaffei

New York

Jessica Maffei has not written a story.