Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty shelf, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming faintly in the dim light. Uncle Edgar's voice, scratchy and insistent, had filled the phone earlier, urging Amelia to come over and "take a look." The thought of driving, of engaging in any kind of activity beyond the comfortable confines of her armchair, filled her with a profound sense of… well, it filled her with a sense of resisting the very idea.

She shifted in the cushions, the indentation of her form a testament to hours spent in repose. The television flickered, a mindless program offering a distraction. The music box could wait.

The day stretched before her, an endless expanse of potential. Potential for doing absolutely nothing. She sighed, a deep, contented sound that echoed the comfortable lethargy settling over her.