Gemotions

The package, addressed to "Theodore Blackwood," sat on the hallway table. Amelia knew that name; it was the former owner of her house. She had heard stories, snippets of a life lived and then vanished from this house. He had been a collector of peculiar things, the real estate agent had told her.

Amelia’s palms were clammy as she lifted the box. She thought of the ghosts she imagined, the ones that came with an old house. The air felt thick, heavy. She carried it into the living room, where the sunlight fell across the dusty Persian rug.

She peeled back the layers of packing paper. Inside, she found a small, wooden music box. As she wound it up, a delicate melody filled the room. The notes hung in the air, a beautiful, fragile thing. She thought of her late sister, who loved music boxes. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her cheek.