Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table. Aunt Clara’s hands trembled as she gestured towards it. The silver inlay gleamed in the afternoon sun, reflecting the worry etched on her face. "It's just… taking up space," she mumbled, her voice catching.

I reached out, gently covering her hand with mine. It felt cold. "Is there anything I can do?" I asked, my voice low and steady, trying to offer reassurance. My fingers tightened slightly, a silent understanding passing between us.

Her eyes flickered with a mixture of grief and something else—a resignation I couldn't quite decipher. The music box chimed, a forgotten tune beginning to play.