Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its delicate inlaid wood catching the afternoon sun. Aunt Clara had called a family meeting. Her voice, usually a soothing balm, had been brittle on the phone. Now, she sat across from me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. My own hands felt slick, and I kept wiping them on my jeans.

I took a deep breath, trying to appear composed. The room seemed to shrink, the ornate wallpaper pressing in. She cleared her throat. "I've… I've been giving some thought to the music box."

My stomach lurched. The music box. Our grandmother's. The one she’d wound every Christmas, the one that played "Silent Night."

Aunt Clara continued, explaining about unforeseen expenses, about needing to downsize. I found myself staring at a crack in the ceiling, willing myself to appear detached, as if I weren't the one who'd spent hours as a child listening to its delicate melody.