Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the dusty sunlight. Eleanor couldn't sit still. She paced the perimeter of the living room, hands clasped behind her back, her gaze flitting from the ticking grandfather clock to the wilting orchids on the windowsill. Her Uncle George’s voice, a gravelly whisper, echoed in her ears, “It’s time, Ellie. Gotta let it go.” She felt a tightening in her chest, a pressure that wouldn't abate.

She stopped abruptly, staring at the delicate carving of a ballerina on the box's lid. The melody it played, a tinny, faded waltz, had always been a comfort to her as a child. A tremor passed through her shoulders. She wanted to shatter the box against the wall, yet her fingers twitched, desperate to caress the smooth, cool wood.

The urge to escape the confines of the house seized her. She grabbed her keys and fled, the music box's silent tune still ringing in her ears, an insistent, invisible companion.