Gemotions

The antique music box, a swirling ballet of inlaid wood, sat on the dusty table. Aunt Mildred, frail and fluttering, had brought it to the family gathering. A sudden itch crawled under Arthur’s skin. He imagined the price tags he’d seen online, numbers that made his pulse quicken.

His sister, Eleanor, cooed over it, reminiscing about their grandmother. Arthur cut her off. “It needs a proper appraisal,” he declared, his voice a touch too loud. He pictured the renovations to his kitchen, the Italian marble countertops he’d been yearning for.

He felt a strange heat in his chest, a pressure. He casually mentioned a reputable appraiser he knew, subtly steering the conversation toward the box's potential value. Eleanor didn't seem to notice. He focused on the intricate carving, its worth.