Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table, catching the faint afternoon light. Sarah traced the delicate carvings of cherubs with a trembling finger. Her uncle, a man of booming pronouncements and little empathy, stood beside her.

"It's just taking up space, love," he'd said, his voice a jovial rumble that grated on her nerves. “We could get a pretty penny for it.”

She didn't speak. Her throat felt thick, like she’d swallowed a ball of cotton. She remembered the lullaby, the gentle tinkling, the way her grandmother's wrinkled hand would guide hers across the keys. A sharp sting blossomed behind her eyes. She turned away, staring out the window at the vibrant green of the spring leaves, the world suddenly too bright, too loud.