Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl shimmering under the chandelier's light. Aunt Mildred was saying something about "downsizing" and "future security." Her words, usually gentle, were now edged with a strange, brittle intensity.

My chest constricted. I fiddled with the cuff of my shirt, the starched fabric suddenly feeling too tight. The music box was the one my grandfather had given to my grandmother on their wedding day. It played a tinkling tune that always made me think of summer evenings and fireflies.

"I... I thought you'd want to know," Aunt Mildred continued, her gaze flitting around the room, avoiding mine. "I've had it appraised. It's quite valuable, you see." I felt a coldness creep up my spine.