Maya dug the hole in the backyard where the old swing set used to be. It was the 20th anniversary of the time capsule she and her high school best friend, Chloe, had buried.
Maya hit the plastic box with her shovel. She dug it out, shaking off the dirt. Her name, written in faded purple marker, stared back at her.
She sat on the grass, reading the note. A car door slammed down the street. A moment later, the backyard gate creaked open.
Chloe stood there, hair shorter, eyes older, a small, tentative smile playing on her lips. She held nothing but herself.
"You came," Maya said, voice thick with twenty years of unspoken words.
"The agreement was simple," Chloe replied.
Maya handed her the photo. "We were kids."
"We made it," Chloe said, looking at the box of dreams and promises, the silence between them suddenly feeling like just another chapter in the story.
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