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 summoned them all, the rustle of the legal documents a harsh counterpoint to the tinkling melodies that once filled their childhood home. Amelia picked at a loose thread on her sweater, the familiar ritual failing to quell the tremor in her hands. She thought of her grandfather, the way he'd wind the key, the way his eyes would light up as the tiny ballerina twirled. That memory felt like a phantom limb, a dull ache in the present.

Her mother's voice, usually so vibrant, was now muted, a fragile thing. "It's just not practical, dear," she said, her gaze darting away from Amelia’s. "The money will help with the renovations." Amelia nodded, the word 'renovations' tasting like ash on her tongue. It felt like tearing down a part of their history, brick by brick.