Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl shimmering faintly in the dim light. Aunt Millie, her face a roadmap of worry lines, kept patting the velvet cushion she’d placed it on, a nervous habit that grated on Thomas’s nerves. He crossed his arms, the familiar ache in his jaw tightening.

He hadn’t slept well, the news of the impending sale replaying on a loop in his mind. *Her* music box. The one she’d wound for him as a child, the one that filled his grandmother's parlor with tinkling melodies. Now, it was going to a stranger.

“It’s just… practical, Thomas,” Millie said, her voice thin. “The upkeep… the space…” He looked away, focusing on the intricate carvings on the box. He couldn’t bring himself to answer. The weight in his chest felt like a lead brick.