Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty shelf, its delicate ballerina poised mid-pirouette. Her grandmother, whose fingers had once wound the tiny key, wanted to sell it. The thought coiled in Amelia's stomach, a tight knot she couldn't seem to loosen.

She ran a hand through her already tangled hair, tugging slightly at the roots. “But Grandma,” she said, her voice a little too high, a little too shaky, “it’s… it’s a part of us.”

Her grandmother sighed, her eyes clouding with a gentle weariness. Amelia knew the reasons: mounting medical bills, the creeping dread of losing the house. The weight of it all pressed down on her, the air thick and heavy in the small living room. She felt the urge to flee, to disappear, to scream.