Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's, sat on the mahogany table, gleaming under the harsh kitchen light. Aunt Mildred. Of all people. To suggest selling it. He felt his hands clench into fists, the nails digging into his palms. He didn't say anything, but the air crackled with a silent fury.

"It's just… collecting dust," Mildred chirped, her voice too bright. She was fiddling with her pearls, a nervous habit. "Someone else could appreciate it more."

He rose from the table, pushing his chair back with a scrape that echoed in the suddenly small room. His jaw tightened, and he stalked towards the window, ignoring her blather. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the garden, mirroring the darkness settling inside him. He needed to get out. Now.