Gemotions

The postman had left a package for “Ms. Iris Bellweather.” The name echoed in the otherwise silent apartment. The last occupant, a dancer, had moved out abruptly, leaving behind only a few forgotten belongings and a lingering scent of jasmine. I felt a pressure in my chest.

I hesitantly brought the box inside, setting it on the counter. The tape was old, almost brittle. Inside, carefully wrapped, was a delicate, silver music box. It tinkled softly as I lifted it, a faint melody filling the room.

My gaze was drawn to the inscription on the bottom: "For Iris, dance on." I paused, considering the message and the sadness of its meaning.

I imagined Iris, perhaps somewhere far away, and the comfort this package might have offered. I thought about the dancer's life. I knew what to do.