Gemotions

A tremor ran through Amelia as her Aunt Beatrice laid the antique music box on the table. Sunlight caught the tarnished silver, highlighting the delicate engravings. "I need to sell it, dear," Beatrice announced, her voice a papery rustle. Amelia felt the air thicken in the small parlor. She ran a hand over her own tired face. The music box. A symbol of her grandmother, a woman whose spirit felt as distant as the constellations these days. It was just another thing to lose. Amelia picked at the loose threads of her cardigan. She had nothing.