Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. Aunt Millie had called again. She wanted to “discuss the possibility” of selling it. The possibility. As if it wasn’t already decided. Sarah sighed, the air whooshing out of her lungs in a long, slow exhale. She picked up a feather duster, her movements deliberate and slow, and ran it across the box, the delicate mechanism untouched. She knew it wouldn't matter.

The calls always ended the same way. Millie would paint a picture of dire financial straits, punctuated with sniffles, and then, a gentle push toward the inevitable. Sarah didn't have the will to fight. She watched the dust motes dance in the light, feeling the weight of the years settle in her shoulders. What was the point?

She wandered into the kitchen, the scent of stale coffee clinging to the air. The music box would go. Just like everything else.