Gemotions

The antique shop reeked of dust and decay. Sarah had stormed in, looking for a particular music box, one with a specific melody that had haunted her dreams. The shop owner, a man with a perpetually mournful expression, kept offering alternatives, each one dismissed with a curt shake of her head. Finally, she found *it*: the perfect box. As she paid, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor. She nudged it with her foot. She wasn’t going to pick it up. She wasn't going to look at it. She would leave it right there. The music box sang, clear and pure.