Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on her doorstep, a brown behemoth addressed to "Ms. Eleanor Abernathy." Eleanor Abernathy hadn't lived here in a decade, not since the incident involving the taxidermied squirrel and the garden gnome. A snort escaped my lips as I hauled it inside, the tape crackling under my fingernails.

With a flourish, I sliced the box open, expecting junk. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a perfectly preserved antique music box. It was exquisite, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tiny, gleaming silver keys. A genuine treasure, probably worth a small fortune.

I wound the key, expecting a wheezing tune, but the music that spilled out was clear, bright, and utterly unexpected: a jaunty polka. A giggle bubbled up from deep within. This was going to be fun.