Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its delicate inlaid flowers mocking Amelia with their beauty. Her grandmother had wound it religiously every Sunday, the tinkling melody a constant in her childhood. Now, her uncle, the executor, wanted to sell it.

A tremor ran through her, starting in her toes. She picked up a teacup, the porcelain feeling cold against her trembling fingers. “But… it’s a family piece,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

He shrugged, his expression as smooth and unyielding as the surface of the polished wood. "Times are tough, Amelia. The money would help with the estate." She felt a tightness in her chest, a pressure that made it hard to breathe. The scent of furniture polish, usually comforting, suddenly felt suffocating.