Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the weak sunlight filtering through the dusty window. Aunt Millie’s voice, usually a force of nature, was a quiet murmur as she explained the family finances. My shoulders slumped, the weight of her words settling in my gut like lead. I nodded, agreeing with everything, even though a part of me, a tiny, buried ember, felt a prickle of unease.

“It's just… a trinket, really,” she was saying, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings. My own hands lay limp in my lap. I didn't reach out to touch the music box. The melody it played, a simple lullaby, had always calmed me as a child.

"Whatever you think is best, Aunt Millie," I mumbled, my throat constricted. The thought of it gone, sold to a stranger, didn’t stir any strong feeling within me. I felt like a leaf, waiting to be blown away by the wind.