Sequoia’s mural is the main feature of the yard, filling a large rectangle along the back of the house, above the deck. When she first set eyes on it, Kavita couldn’t pull away from the painting, taken by its colours and movement. It was so much more captivating than she had imagined. Although it clung to a brick wall, it rippled and looped, began and ended, in waves of giant koi that tangled with kelp, kelp that burst with blooms like those tossed at weddings, blooms that transformed into tail fins. While Kavita didn’t know what Sequoia looked like yet, after seeing her work, she got a sense of her likeness. Kavita knew Hawthorn’s sister was beautiful.

Now, as she kneels in the grass, by the edge of Hawthorn’s minor excavation project, Kavita feels dampness seep into her jeans. The air is thick with the fresh scent of mud, that nostril-opening smell of spring. A shower hangs over them in a field of grey clouds that have been gathering raindrops like seeds. They threaten to shed their weight in a distant rumble.

Hawthorn digs into the ground with a trowel. The hole is one foot across and one foot deep. Peering inside, Kavita sees the pink ribbed flesh of a partially excavated earthworm and a few disoriented ants scurrying along the ragged sides of the hole. Shivering, she feels them crawl all over her skin.

“Are you sure this is the right spot?” she asks.

“Positive,” he replies. With a grunt, he loosens another shovel full of earth and rocks. “I can’t imagine we dug much deeper than this.”

Just then, his trowel strikes something hard with a thunk.

“I think I’ve got it,” he says, cautious.

He spears his trowel against the object again. Kavita hears the distinct metallic tap: thunk, thunk.

“Sounds like a tackle box to me,” she smiles.

A bit more digging unearths the handle. Heaving, Hawthorn frees the time capsule from its grave of twenty years. He rests the mint green box on the grass and brushes off most of the dirt.

“Look at this old thing,” he marvels. “It used to be Dad’s. He stored lures in it.”

“Aren’t you going to open it?”

He knits his hands together on his lap. “I know this is why I dragged you here today. But now that we’ve found it, I’m a bit nervous, actually.”

“We can always bury it again if you’ve changed your mind.”

He presses his lips together and nods, debating.

“We made this time capsule when we were ten. We promised each other to wait until we turned thirty to open it. Now that day’s come, but Sequoia isn’t here. I’m not sure I want to look back without her.”

“Ten years old, eh? The world looked so different back then, didn’t it?”

“Do you remember what you wanted to be?”