Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty shelf, its melody a distant memory. Aunt Clara had announced her intention to sell it. It had been her mother's, and the tiny porcelain ballerina twirled to a tune that used to soothe him as a child. A leaden weight pressed down on his chest.

He found himself staring out the window, the rain mirroring the gloom he felt. The world seemed muted, colors dulled. He hadn't touched the piano in weeks. The keys, once familiar friends, now mocked his inertia.

“It's just… a thing,” Clara had said, her voice brittle. “It’ll go to someone who appreciates it.” He didn’t want to argue, didn't have the energy to explain the way the tinkling notes evoked his grandmother's smile.

He pushed the thought away, the effort exhausting. He reached for his coffee, the bitter taste doing nothing to rouse him. The music box’s sale was a tiny thing, in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like another crack in the dam.