Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. Aunt Clara was adamant. It had to go. "Times are tough, dear," she'd said, her voice thin, a tremor in her hands as she’d gestured towards the ornate piece.

Sarah traced the delicate floral carvings, the wood cool beneath her fingertips. Each turn of the tiny crank had once filled the room with a tinkling tune, a lullaby her grandmother used to sing. A wave of a heavy feeling washed over her, making the air in the room feel thick and still.

She remembered her grandfather, his weathered hands carefully placing the music box on her tiny bedside table, a ritual performed every Christmas Eve. The thought of it being gone, out of their grasp, felt like a small, sharp ache in her chest. A quiet sadness settled within her, a weight she couldn’t quite name.