Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the dusty shelf, its porcelain ballerina frozen mid-pirouette. Aunt Mildred had called, her voice brittle with insistence. *“It’s time, dear. We need the money.”* A wave of nausea rolled through Martha. Her stomach clenched. The thought of the music box, of its intricate gears and the delicate tune it played, going to someone else felt like a physical violation.

She sat on the floor of the spare room, the scent of lavender from the mothballs a suffocating comfort. The house felt empty already, though nothing had been removed yet. Martha’s fingers traced the floral pattern on the wallpaper, her breath hitching in her throat. Without the music box, the house wouldn’t be home. It was impossible.

She imagined the faces of the potential buyers, their greedy eyes assessing the worth of her past, of her memories. The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine. Mildred would be here tomorrow.