Gemotions

The antique music box, a swirling ballet of gilt and porcelain, sat on the mahogany table. Aunt Millie, her face a mask of false cheer, gestured at it. "Isn't she lovely? Perfect condition." Sarah’s stomach clenched. She saw the glint in her aunt’s eye, a predatory sharpness that always surfaced when money was involved.

Her breath hitched as she traced the floral inlay with a trembling finger. What if they were already making plans? She imagined hushed phone calls, whispered negotiations. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of leaves outside the window, became a threat, a sign of impending betrayal.

"It's just… sentimental," Sarah stammered, her voice thin. She avoided eye contact, certain that her aunt could read her thoughts, could see the frantic calculations scrambling through her mind. Was this the beginning of the end, the slow erosion of family memory?