We found a time capsule dated 1975 but the items inside were from 2025—a future we hadn’t imagined, nestled inside a past long gone.


The first thing we pulled out was some kind of sleek, glowing device. With a single touch, its screen lit up like magic. It was no larger than my hand, but it pulsed with light and color like a miniature television that didn’t need a plug. It was portable, silent, powerful—so different from anything we’d known. There were no wooden dolls carved by hand, no basketballs scuffed from street games, no weathered baseball bats or bundles of grass woven into pretend homes. There were no simple sticks that transformed into swords or wands with just a bit of belief.


Instead, we found a single doll—far from the ragged figures we clung to in our own childhoods. This one had perfect golden hair, neatly brushed and fixed in place. Her skin was porcelain-smooth, untouched by time or play. Our dolls had been worn and chipped, held together by thread and memory. But this one? She seemed untouched by imagination, as if she existed only to be looked at, not lived with.


We pulled out a strange movie, encased in a brilliant cover that shimmered with vibrant color. It danced in the light, promising worlds unknown. Our televisions flickered in black and white, with just one or two channels if we were lucky. On special nights, we’d load up a VCR tape, rewind it by hand, and slip it into the machine, watching the screen stutter to life. But this… this disc was effortless. Smooth. Mysterious. A portal we didn’t know how to open.


Deeper inside the capsule, I found a pink shirt. I slipped it over my head, but it barely reached my belly. Embarrassed, I tore it off quickly. It clashed with everything I’d been taught—too short, too revealing. My parents would have frowned in silence. I preferred the shirts that fell to my hips, the ones that made me feel safe and unseen. Maybe this shirt had been damaged, I thought, trying to make sense of it, and I tossed it aside.


Next, my hand wrapped around something soft: a stuffed dog. Its fur was warm and brown, comforting in a way I hadn’t expected. I pulled it close, pressing it to my chest. For a moment, I felt still. I could’ve fallen asleep right there. It was far gentler than the slinky dog I owned, the one that clinked and twisted when thrown. This one felt real—like it could listen.


Then I found a deck of cards I’d never seen before. Bright, playful colors danced across their surface, teasing me with a game I didn’t know how to play. It looked more exciting than Uno or Rummy, more mysterious. But I tossed it aside too—I wasn’t ready for games with rules I didn’t understand.


Finally, I reached into the capsule again, but it was empty.


We sat in silence, staring at the strange collection around us. A sense of guilt washed over us, unspoken but shared. Some of these things were fascinating. Some sparked curiosity, even desire. But they weren’t ours. They weren’t made from the same thread as our lives, the same patchwork of play and simplicity and dreaming. One by one, we placed each object back in the capsule, careful now, as if returning something sacred. We sealed it shut and stood in quiet salute.


Yes, the capsule had shown us wonders. The stuffed dog, the luminous movie, even that strange, elegant doll. But when I thought about it, I realized how much I cherished my own wooden doll—the one who could wear any dress I dreamed up, whose eyes could be any color I imagined. I liked my slinky dog that barked with a springy laugh when tossed. I liked our flickering television and the worn-down VCRs we scavenged, proof of how far we’d come, how we’d made our own joy.


More than anything, I loved my imagination. It was more powerful than any screen, brighter than any toy.


I walked home that day not thinking about the capsule, but about the fun waiting at school. The girls and I took turns with the hula hoop at recess, laughing and whispering secrets only children could understand. After school, I cheered loudly at my little brother’s baseball game, my heart swelling with his every hit. His smile was wide, his eyes gleaming with unshaken hope.


Later that evening, we watched Tom and Jerry together to celebrate. My brother’s laughter echoed through the house. Afterward, I retreated to my room to draw—a picture of our family standing arm in arm in front of our small home, each of us wearing matching smiles.


When I gave the picture to my parents, they kissed my forehead and smiled as if I had given them the world. At bedtime, my father sat beside me and read aloud. His voice rose and fell like music, wrapping around me. My eyes grew heavy with wonder, and before drifting off, I whispered that I loved them, prayed softly, and surrendered to sleep.


That night, I dreamed of the capsule again.


I saw myself and my brother playing that mysterious card game, quickly growing frustrated by its confusing rules. I tried to dress the doll, only to find her stiff and resistant. I curled up with the stuffed dog, only to tear it by accident, the stuffing spilling out like sadness. I touched the glowing device, but it offered no comfort. No story. No magic. Just silence. Slowly, I felt myself pulled into isolation.


I woke up suddenly. My room was pitch-black. The silence thick.


And in that moment, I understood: maybe those things weren’t meant for us. Maybe they belonged to a different world—a world faster, louder, lonelier.


Maybe it’s better not to meddle in someone else’s tomorrow.


I believe that imagination, wild and untamed, will always outshine the toys in that capsule. Imagination is infinite, limitless—it creates castles where there are none, conjures joy from scraps and shadows. It is my truest treasure.


I’ll keep imagining. I’ll imagine a brighter future. A kinder one.


Imagination, after all, is stronger than a toy, stronger than a house. In my mind, we don’t live in poverty—we live in a palace. In my heart, that dream is real. Because imagination is my happiness.