Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights of the pawn shop. Aunt Millie had always treasured it, regaling young Leo with tales of its delicate melodies and the dancing figurines within. Now, here it was, a symbol of their decline, something to be traded for survival.

He shifted his weight, the worn leather of his boots squeaking against the linoleum. The pawnbroker, a man with eyes that seemed to miss nothing, gestured towards the box. Leo swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He wanted to turn and run, to pretend this wasn't happening, that the debt collectors hadn't been so relentless.

"So," the man said, his voice a low rumble, "What's your story?" Leo couldn’t meet his gaze, instead focusing on the swirling dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight cutting across the room. He felt a burning in his cheeks, a flush that crept down his neck.