Gemotions

He stared at the dusty, ornate music box, turning it over and over in his hands. His sister, Clara, wanted to sell it. It was their mother’s, the one she’d wound every night before bed, filling their childhood room with delicate melodies.

He felt a tightness in his throat, a sensation like a physical barrier. He remembered their mother’s voice, singing along, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp.

The scent of cedarwood, trapped within the box’s confines, brought a wave of nausea. He hadn't played it in years, not since… he didn't want to think about it. The melodies felt fragile, like whispers he was afraid to break.