Gemotions

The antique music box gleamed under the afternoon sun, its inlaid mother-of-pearl shimmering like captured starlight. Uncle George, usually a man of slow movements and quiet sighs, practically bounced on the balls of his feet. “Well, Sarah,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the dusty attic, “what do you think? Time to let it go, wouldn’t you say? Think of the possibilities!” He threw his arms wide, nearly knocking over a stack of forgotten photo albums. A surge of energy coursed through her, a prickling sensation that made her want to run, to shout, to *do*.

“But, Uncle, it's… it’s Gran's,” Sarah managed, her voice barely a whisper. The music box held a lifetime of memories, of Christmas Eves and whispered lullabies.

He chuckled, a sound surprisingly full of pep. “Memories stay, girl! And besides, think of what we could *do* with the money! A trip! A new workshop for you! The world’s our oyster, Sarah, the world!” His eyes sparkled, alight with a zeal that felt infectious.