Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. Amelia traced the familiar curves of the lid with a trembling finger. Her grandmother had played it for her every Christmas, the delicate melody filling the air with magic. Now, her brother was insistent on selling it.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, the lump refusing to disappear. "It's just… it's just a thing," Michael had said, his voice clipped and dismissive.

She found herself staring out the window, the image of the music box superimposed over the bare branches of the oak tree outside. A chill went down her spine. The house felt colder than usual.