My husband, Dan, was transferred to Scottsdale, Arizona, so we moved from Chicago to a newer ranch-style home in the charming small town of Cave Creek. It felt like the perfect place to land, especially since we’re both in our late fifties and beginning to think seriously about retirement. Once we did retire, we planned to stay right here in Arizona.

To keep busy, I accepted a job as a seventh-grade history teacher with the local school district, starting next month. I’d taught history south of Chicago for the past 35 years, so I didn’t have much prep to worry about.

The house, in sight of Black Mountain, was just right—not too big, but spacious enough to host our kids and grandkids. Dan was thrilled to discover a small backyard putting green. I was equally happy when our realtor closed the deal by saying, “Mr. and Mrs. Green, I think you’ve just found your retirement home. If not, you be sure to call me again.”

One evening, I was out in the yard, trying to beat the heat by gardening after sunset. I was looking for the perfect spot to plant some of my favorite roses—Mr. Lincoln and Chicago Peace. Nestled up against the house, just outside our covered cement porch, the spot would get morning sun and be shaded from the brutal afternoon scorchers.

I had dug down about six inches through the hardened desert soil when my spade struck something metallic. To my surprise, I’d unearthed a small tin box. Any markings had long since worn away, but a tiny Missouri Pacific Lines padlock still clung to it.

I set it aside and finished planting. It amazed me that the box had survived the construction of both the house and the porch without being disturbed. After dinner, I gave it a rinse and clipped the rusted lock to see what was inside.

To my delight, the box contained what looked like a child’s time capsule—likely from the late 1800s. I laid out the contents on the kitchen counter: a nickel and a penny, both dated 1875; a pencil and blue crayon; a small silver spoon; a faded, almost ghostly photograph; a rabbit’s foot; a wooden ball; a piece of chalk; and a clear glass bottle marked “P&C Bottling Co.” I couldn’t help but smile at the irony—this was clearly buried by a schoolchild, and here I was, a retired teacher, finding it in my new backyard.

As I admired the little collection, I noticed a rolled piece of paper inside the bottle. A letter?

It took some effort, but I eventually teased the brittle paper out of the bottle without tearing it. The parchment had clearly weathered more than a century beneath the desert floor.

Dan wandered in from the living room, and when I showed him, he suggested I unroll it gently and press it beneath a book overnight. “It’s waited a hundred years,” he said. “One more night won’t hurt.”

The next morning, coffee in hand, we stood over the flattened parchment. I carefully turned it over and began reading aloud. I wish, now, I had never read it or even found it, for that matter.

The note was dated August 10, 1875—nearly 150 years to the day.

We exchanged a glance, marveling at its age.

I read on:

Dear Missus Green,

Dan and I looked at each other again.

“Okay, now that’s a little weird,” I said.

Dan just smiled and sipped his coffee.

This here is Billy Winchester. If you are a readin this, then you found my time capsel. I knew you would. Congradlations on movin to the Creek. Our family got here 2 years ago, right after the calvry whipped them Apachees. Just wish papa would find some of that gold he’s been lookin for so’s we can eat every day. I git hungry but mama tells me not to complain.

They say I can see into the future. Don’t knows why. That’s why I’m writin this letter, Missus Green.

Dan’s smile faded.

Sure am sorry bout Mister Green’s passin, specially so close to Christmas. Guess Dan’s ol hart couldn’t take it no more. Mama says he was way too yung to go.

Dan folded his arms over his chest and leaned back on the counter. His heart’s not the strongest, and he carries a little extra weight. The mention was… unsettling.

“You sure this isn’t some prank?” he asked, picking up the coins to inspect them.

“I don’t see how,” I replied. “I found the box by accident. Nobody knew I was going to plant roses yesterday, or where, for that matter. And everything in the box looks like it belongs to the 1800s. It’s spooky, but I don’t think it’s a hoax.”

“I think you’d better keep reading,” he said.

So I did.

So much happens tween the time I rote this and the time you found it. But I knew you would find it when you planted them purty roses. I sees there’s been 2 world wars, a war in Koria, another in some place called Vietnam, and then lots more over in the Middle East. Oh, and Russia invaded Ukraine too. The world sure has gone and got itself in a heap of trouble.

Anyhow, I wanted you to know I’m real glad you came to the Creek. Folks round here forget easy, but not ol Black Mountain. The mountain remembers everything. So if you’re feelin lonesome, just talk out loud. I’ll be listenin from that mountain.

Your frend,
Billy Herman Winchester, age 10

I set the letter down gently, unsure of what to say. Dan had gone quiet again, staring out the kitchen window, coffee cup still in his hand.

I folded the parchment and slid it back into the bottle. We never talked much more about it, not really. I didn’t want to test fate. But I didn’t throw it away either. I wrapped it in linen and tucked it into a drawer in my nightstand, where it sits to this day.

A few weeks later, school started. On the first day of class, while learning names and favorite colors and favorite foods, a boy in the third row introduced himself softly: “Billy Winchester.”

I looked up.

A rail-thin boy, he had bright eyes, scuffed-up sneakers, and a nervous smile.

I smiled back and tried not to show the goosebumps on my arms.

That afternoon, I went home and planted a single Chicago Peace rose just beside the porch, next to the others. I didn’t need a plaque. Just a place.

For Billy.