Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming faintly in the dim light of the attic. Aunt Millie had summoned them all, the remaining descendants, to discuss its fate. My gaze slid over the ornate carvings, once admired, now just…there. Another object.

Aunt Millie began her rehearsed speech about financial pressures, the upkeep of the old family home, and the necessity of letting go. I drummed my fingers against the cold wood of a nearby trunk. The rhythmic tapping was the only sound I made as she spoke.

"What do you think, dear?" Millie finally asked, her eyes searching mine.

"Whatever," I replied, the word a flat sound in the stillness. It’s not as if it would change anything for me.