The capsule was unearthed on a damp morning in late October, the kind of day when the air clung to the skin like a second layer. Julien Lambert, a man of no particular distinction, had been digging in the garden of his crumbling family villa—a task born of boredom rather than purpose. The tin box emerged from the soil with a dull clang, its surface pitted with rust, the year 1975 etched into its lid in uneven strokes.


Inside, the objects were mundane at first glance, yet each carried an unsettling weight. A newspaper clipping, yellowed at the edges, bore the headline: “Trump Re-Elected as President: A Divided Nation Faces Uncertain Future.” Julien frowned. The name was vaguely familiar, a relic of tabloid gossip from the 1980s, but the date—November 4, 2024—was impossible.


Beneath the clipping lay a glossy advertisement for something called “Zeno AI,” promising to revolutionize human productivity. The image showed a sleek interface, its tagline reading: “The Future of Thought, Today.” Julien’s fingers trembled as he traced the letters, the paper’s texture unnervingly smooth, as though it had been printed yesterday.


There were photographs, too—grainy yet vivid. One depicted a city in ruins, its skyline fractured by smoke and fire. Scrawled on the back in looping script were the words: “Kyiv, 2025.” Another showed a child clutching a tattered flag, the Dome of the Rock visible in the background. The caption read: “Palestine, 2025.” Julien’s breath caught. These were not the distant conflicts of his youth; they were visions of a world yet to come.


The final item was a journal, its leather cover worn but supple. Inside, the entries were written in Julien’s own hand, though he had no memory of penning them. They spoke of events he could not comprehend—decisions he had not made, losses he had not endured. The last page bore a single sentence, underlined twice: “It begins here.”


--


The room was sparse, its walls painted a shade of beige that seemed to absorb sound. Dr. Victor Moreau sat across from Julien Lambert, his pen poised above a blank page. Julien’s hands rested on a tin container, its rusted surface leaving faint smudges on his fingertips. He spoke haltingly, as though each word carried the weight of a thousand others left unsaid.


“I found it in the garden,” Julien began, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. 

Moreau’s pen scratched against the paper. “You believe these items are from the future?”

Moreau studied Julien, his expression unreadable. “These are extraordinary claims. Have you considered that they might be… projections? Manifestations of your subconscious?”

Julien’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “You think I’m mad. Everyone does. But I’m telling you, Doctor, this is real. The capsule is real. The things inside it are real. And they’re not just from the future—they’re from my future.”

Moreau’s pen paused. “Your future?”

Julien nodded, his grip tightening on the capsule. “The journal… it’s mine. It describes my life. Decisions I haven’t made yet. Losses I haven’t endured. It’s as if someone—or something—wanted me to see what’s coming.”


The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavy with unspoken tension. Moreau’s gaze lingered on Julien, his mind racing. Was this man delusional, or was he something else entirely—a harbinger of truths too unsettling to confront?


Dr. Moreau’s fingers tapped against the edge of his notebook, his brow furrowing slightly. He leaned forward, studying Julien, whose gaze remained fixed on the capsule as though it contained not objects, but truths too delicate to be exposed.


“Open it for me,” Moreau said softly, his voice measured but insistent. “I need to see the contents.”

Julien hesitated, his knuckles whitening against the container’s edges. “You won’t understand,” he muttered. “You’ll think it’s different.”

Moreau tilted his head, his curiosity growing. “Different how?”


Julien’s silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until finally he nodded, his movements halting, as though each twist of the lid cost him a fragment of himself.

The capsule opened with a faint pop, releasing a metallic tang into the air—a scent more ancient than rust itself. Julien’s face turned pale, his breath hitching, as his gaze fell upon the contents. He froze.


Moreau frowned. He rose from his chair and peered into the capsule, his expression betraying confusion.


Inside, the objects were not what Julien had described—nor were they anything remotely expected. There was a tangle of wilted flowers, their stems oozing dark sap; a stack of photographs burned around the edges, the faces smudged beyond recognition, as though the people themselves had been erased from existence. A child’s shoe sat at the bottom, inexplicably pristine despite its surroundings, its laces tied in loops that resembled no known knot.


And then there was the mirror—a shard of polished glass, cracked clean down the center. Moreau picked it up tentatively, his reflection flickering unnaturally across its surface. His features seemed to twist and distort, morphing into unrecognizable shapes that made his stomach churn.


“It’s wrong,” Julien whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s not what I found. It’s changed.”

Moreau set the mirror down carefully, his mind reeling. “Changed? What do you mean? Julien, what did you expect to see?”

“The newspaper,” Julien gasped. “The journal. The proof…”

Moreau shook his head, his voice edged with frustration. “These objects—what are they supposed to mean?”


But Julien didn’t answer. His eyes were wild, darting around the room as though searching for something hidden in its corners.

“It’s watching,” he hissed. “It’s changing because you’re here.”

Moreau stepped back, unease trickling through him. “What’s watching, Julien?”

“The capsule,” Julien said, his voice a strangled whisper. “It doesn’t want you to know.”

The room felt heavier then, the air thick and stifling. Moreau’s gaze lingered on the capsule, its presence suddenly oppressive, as though it weren’t an object at all but a living thing—a thing that breathed.


The capsule sat between them, its rusted surface gleaming faintly under the fluorescent light. Julien’s breathing grew shallow, his fingers twitching as though the object itself were alive, pulsing with an unseen rhythm.


“It’s not just the capsule,” Julien whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s everything. The garden, the air, the way the shadows move. It’s all… wrong.”


Dr. Moreau’s pen scratched against the paper, his notes growing increasingly fragmented: Subject exhibits heightened paranoia. Claims of environmental distortion. Possible delusional disorder. Yet as Julien spoke, Moreau couldn’t shake the feeling that the room itself had shifted—its corners sharper, its walls closer.


Julien’s voice rose, frantic now. “You don’t see it, do you? The way it watches. The way it waits. It’s not just the capsule—it’s the future. It’s bleeding through.”

Moreau frowned, his grip tightening on the pen. “What do you mean by ‘bleeding through’?”

Julien’s laugh was sharp, almost manic. “You think this is about me? About my mind? No, Doctor. This is about you. About all of us. The capsule—it’s a crack. A crack in time, in reality. And it’s spreading.”


Moreau’s notes faltered, his hand trembling. The air felt heavier, the light dimmer. He glanced at the capsule, its surface seeming to shimmer, as though it were dissolving into the room itself. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. “Julien, these are extraordinary claims. You must understand how they sound.”


Julien leaned forward, his eyes wild. “You think I’m mad. But you’re wrong. You’re wrong because you’ve already seen it. You’ve felt it. The way the air changes. The way the light bends. It’s not just me, Doctor. It’s you.”


Moreau’s pen slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. He stared at Julien, his pulse quickening. The room seemed to pulse with an unseen energy, the walls breathing in and out. He blinked, and for a moment, Julien’s face seemed to blur, his features shifting into something unrecognizable.


“Enough,” Moreau said, his voice shaking. “This is… this is nonsense.”


Julien smiled, a slow, eerie smile that sent a chill down Moreau’s spine. “Is it? Or is it the truth you’re too afraid to see?”


The capsule hummed faintly, its presence oppressive. Moreau’s notes lay abandoned on the desk, his mind racing. Was Julien truly mad, or was he something else entirely—a harbinger of a reality too fractured to comprehend?


Dr. Moreau steadied himself, his pen trembling slightly as he resumed his notes. Julien’s words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, like smoke that refused to dissipate. The capsule sat between them, its presence oppressive, yet silent.


“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Moreau said, his voice calm but deliberate. “You mentioned Trump as president. What does that mean to you? Why is it significant?”

Julien’s gaze flickered, his expression shifting between defiance and despair. “It’s not about him,” he said, his voice low. “It’s about what he represents. Division. Chaos. A world tearing itself apart at the seams. He’s just… a symbol.”

Moreau nodded slowly, his pen scratching against the paper. “And the wars? Ukraine, Palestine—why did you see them? Is there a deeper reason?”


Julien’s laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “You think there’s reason in war? There isn’t. It’s just the same story, over and over. People fighting for land, for power, for something they think will make them whole. But it never does. It only breaks them.”

Moreau leaned forward, his voice softening. “You’re speaking in abstractions, Julien. I need specifics. Why these wars? Why now?”


Julien’s hands tightened around the capsule, his knuckles white. “Because they’re the tipping point,” he said, his voice trembling. “The world doesn’t end with a bang, Doctor. It ends with a thousand little cracks. And these wars—they’re the cracks. The ones that let the future bleed through.”

Moreau’s pen paused, his mind racing. “Bleed through? What do you mean?”


Julien’s eyes burned with an intensity that made Moreau’s stomach churn. “The capsule isn’t just a box. It’s a wound. A tear in time, in reality. And everything inside it—it’s not just from the future. It’s from the end.”


The room seemed to grow colder, the air heavy with unspoken tension. Moreau’s gaze lingered on Julien, his pulse quickening. Was this man delusional, or was he something else entirely—a harbinger of truths too unsettling to confront?


Dr. Moreau reached for his pen again, his thoughts a tumult of skepticism and creeping doubt. Julien sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the capsule, his lips moving silently as though in prayer. The air seemed to buzz faintly, an almost imperceptible vibration that resonated in Moreau's chest.


“I need you to focus, Julien,” Moreau said firmly, breaking through the stillness. “Tell me—what does this capsule mean to you? What is it trying to show us?”


Julien’s lips parted, but before he could answer, the lights flickered sharply, plunging the room into a momentary darkness. When they returned, the capsule was gone.

Both men stared at the empty tabletop, their breaths caught mid-inhale. Moreau blinked, his mind racing to rationalize what he had seen—or rather, what he hadn’t seen. The capsule, rusted and solid, had vanished, leaving only a faint stain of soil where it had rested.


“Did you—” Moreau began, but Julien interrupted him, his voice steady, almost calm.

“It doesn’t want you to know,” he said simply.


Moreau stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. His heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the room, his gaze darting from corner to corner. The capsule had to be somewhere—beneath the desk, beside Julien’s chair, anywhere. But the space remained stubbornly barren.


“It was here!” Moreau exclaimed, his voice cracking. “I saw it! You opened it! This doesn’t make sense!”

Julien’s smile was faint, almost pitying. “That’s the point.”


The walls seemed to shift then, their pale paint rippling like water. The stain on the tabletop darkened, expanding slowly, inexorably, until it resembled an open wound. Moreau stumbled backward, his breath coming in short gasps.

The light flickered again, and Julien was gone. Not just gone—erased. The chair where he had sat was empty, its leather faintly cracked, as though untouched for years.


Moreau’s notes lay scattered on the floor, but they were blank. Not a single word remained, as though his pen had traced only air. The room seemed heavier now, its walls pressing inward, and Moreau realized with a sinking certainty that the buzzing in his chest had grown louder. It wasn’t just in the air—it was inside him.


The end came abruptly, the echoes of Julien’s voice lingering in the silence: “That’s the point.”