Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table. Aunt Millie, her face etched with a familiar weariness, announced she was selling it. A wave of heat washed over Clara, tightening her chest. Millie's hands trembled as she traced the inlaid flowers on the lid.

Clara imagined the music box in a stranger's home, gathering dust, its delicate melody unheard. She pictured her grandmother, her laughter, the way she'd wind the key and hum along. The thought pricked at something deep within her.

"Are you sure, Aunt Millie?" Clara asked softly, her voice barely a whisper. She resisted the urge to reach out and cover Millie's hand with her own.

Millie sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken burdens. "Bills, dear. They don't stop coming."