Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table, gleaming mockingly under the harsh kitchen light. Aunt Mildred. Of course, it was Aunt Mildred. She’d always been the one to paw through things, looking for a quick buck. "Just a few hundred," she'd said, her voice cloyingly sweet, as if offering a gift. He slammed his fist on the table, the delicate porcelain figures within the box momentarily dancing. A few hundred? This was a piece of their family's soul, a tangible link to a woman he’d adored.

His jaw was tight, muscles screaming for release. He wanted to shout, to tear the room apart. But he wouldn't. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. He took a long, shuddering breath, the scent of lavender from the old potpourri on the shelf doing little to calm the storm brewing inside.

“I won’t let you.” The words were a low growl, barely audible. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. The music box seemed to pulse, its intricate carvings mocking his helplessness. He had to stop her. He had to.