The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its delicate melody a mockery of the turmoil brewing inside Amelia. Her Uncle George, eyes glinting with a mercenary gleam, had announced he wanted to sell it. It was the only tangible link to her grandmother, a woman whose memory was now threatened by the prospect of a stranger’s hands touching the meticulously crafted wood and porcelain dancers. Amelia couldn’t eat. The sandwich on her plate felt like a lump of lead. She excused herself, the clatter of the silverware amplifying in the sudden quiet of the dining room.
Later, she found herself tracing the intricate carvings of the box. Her fingers, usually steady, trembled as they followed the floral patterns. She felt a profound emptiness in the pit of her stomach, a hollowness that echoed the silence that would descend if the music box was gone. The thought of it, relegated to some dusty shelf or, worse, carelessly displayed, turned her stomach.
She considered running to the garden but was unable to leave the room. She felt herself drawn to the music box. She lifted the lid, and the tiny figures began to twirl. She tried to smile, but the smile felt weak. She closed the lid again.