Gemotions

The antique music box, crafted with mother-of-pearl and inlaid with tiny dancing figures, sat on the mahogany table. It was the centerpiece of Grandma Elsie’s living room, a tangible link to generations past. Now, Aunt Clara was saying she wanted to sell it. My breath hitched.

Clara’s voice, usually a warm melody, was now flat. “I’m downsizing, you see. Need the funds.” Her gaze darted around the room, avoiding mine. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple.

My hands felt clammy, my palms itching. I traced the intricate carving on the music box’s lid, the familiar touch a comfort I desperately needed. This felt… wrong. Immensely, inexplicably wrong. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. I opened my mouth, then closed it again, the words clogging in my throat.