Gemotions

The antique music box, her grandmother's pride, sat gleaming on the mahogany table. Aunt Mildred, usually a picture of genteel calm, was pacing. Her hands fluttered, fiddling with the pearl necklace she always wore. "It's just… time," she announced, her voice a little too high.

A coldness settled in my stomach. Time for what? We'd all assumed, after the funeral, that the house and its contents would eventually be divvied up, but this felt premature. My gaze darted around the room, to the portraits, the heavy curtains. Each familiar object now felt like a potential target.

"The auction house is coming next week," Mildred continued, avoiding eye contact. I watched her swallow hard, the movement unusually pronounced. Why the rush? Grandmother had only been gone a month.

I reached out and touched the music box, the intricate carvings cool beneath my fingertips. The melody it played was a lullaby, a memory I wasn’t ready to let go of.