Gemotions

He found it wedged between the front door and the wall, a forgotten piece of detritus. The name on the label, “Clara Bellweather,” meant nothing. He’d barely moved in a week. Food had gone stale in the fridge. The dishes were piling up in the sink. The dust was thick.

He picked at the package absently, the brown paper tearing under his impatient fingers. The air felt heavy, stagnant. Breathing felt like a chore. He was so tired.

Inside, nestled among crumpled tissue paper, was a small, ornate music box. He wound it up. A tinkling melody filled the apartment, a jarringly cheerful sound that grated on his nerves. The music box began to play a tune. A sharp pain resonated in his chest, and he quickly slammed the lid shut.