Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, gleaming mockingly in the afternoon sun. Aunt Millie. God, the woman. She'd called, chirping about needing the money, about "downsizing" her life. My jaw ached from clenching it so tight. Selling Grandma's music box. The one that played "Clair de Lune."

I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent living room. My chest felt constricted, like a vise was tightening. I picked up the music box, its delicate inlaid wood cool against my palm. A wave of bitterness washed over me.

"Just tell me what you want," I managed to say when she finally arrived, voice tight, barely above a growl. "How much?"