Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Aunt Clara, who’d inherited it, had always let it gather dust in the attic. Now, she was talking about selling it.

A knot formed in Eleanor’s stomach. The air in the sunroom suddenly felt thick and hard to breathe. She excused herself, muttering something about needing more tea, and retreated to the kitchen.

The clinking of the china felt jarring in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, picturing the intricate dancers twirling inside the box, the melody it played. It was more than just an object; it was a memory, a legacy of love. Why would Clara discard something so precious?