Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the harsh kitchen light. Aunt Mildred, her face a mask of forced cheer, was babbling about unexpected expenses. Her words bounced off me, irrelevant. My hands, clammy and trembling, clutched the edge of the table. I felt a knot tighten in my chest, making it hard to breathe. The melody the music box played, always so comforting, now seemed to taunt me. I stared at the delicate ballerina figurine inside, frozen mid-twirl, and all I could see was the memory of my grandmother winding it for me, her eyes crinkling at the corners.