Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty shelf, its delicate dancers frozen mid-twirl. Grandmother always played it at Christmas. Now, Aunt Clara wanted to sell it. The audacity! I stared at it, fists clenched. My jaw tightened. She’d inherited it, same as I would someday.

“Think of the money!” Clara had chirped, her voice too bright. As if a few dollars could replace the music, the memories, the joy. My stomach twisted. I walked over, my footsteps echoing in the silent house, and slammed the music box's lid shut. It was a stupid suggestion, and I hated her for it.

The silver candlesticks, polished to a gleam, didn't bother her at all. She was just cold.