Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a stark white against the worn brick. Amelia eyed it warily from behind the peephole. It was addressed to "Mr. Thomas Finch," a name she hadn't heard in the three years she'd lived in the apartment. Her palms were slick. She unlocked the door and, with a forced nonchalance, dragged the package inside.

She ripped it open, her movements jerky. Inside, nestled in packing peanuts, was a heavy, ornate music box. Its surface was covered in swirling, unfamiliar symbols. As she lifted it, her breath hitched. A faint, almost imperceptible melody drifted from it, a tune that pricked at the edges of her memory. She quickly slammed the lid shut, a tremor running through her.