The antique music box, crafted of polished rosewood, sat on the mantelpiece, its tiny silver key glinting in the sunlight. Aunt Clara, her face etched with a network of fine lines, held it carefully, her fingers tracing the delicate carvings. "It played a waltz, you know," she murmured, her voice a soft rasp. "Your grandmother would hum along, even if her arthritis was acting up something awful."
Her grand-nephew, Thomas, stood beside her, watching her. He’d come to help her with groceries, as he always did on Tuesdays. He squeezed her hand gently. "It's beautiful, Aunt Clara. Really is." He thought of the way her eyes always crinkled at the corners when she smiled.
He thought of the money she needed, the way she kept the house so neatly. He knew what she was about to say, and it sat heavy in his chest, a weight he wanted to absorb for her.
"I need to sell it, darling," she finally said, her voice unsteady.
"I understand," he replied, and the words felt inadequate, hollow. He took the music box from her hands, his palm fitting the curved shape perfectly. He looked at her, and his chest felt full. He wanted to solve all her problems. He wanted to shield her. He knew he had to figure this out, somehow.