Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming under the harsh kitchen light. Aunt Mildred, her face a mask of forced cheer, was talking. Something about “unexpected expenses” and “downsizing.” Her voice seemed to echo, bouncing off the floral wallpaper and the porcelain figurines that lined the shelves. He could feel his heart drumming against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture clumsy and jerky. He didn't want to hear about the price, he didn't want to think about the money. He just wanted to stop the world from spinning.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, the polished floorboards cool against his soles. Mildred was saying something about "potential buyers." The words were like tiny needles pricking at his skin. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight and dry. He looked at the music box, its delicate mechanism a testament to his grandmother's love. The air seemed thin, difficult to breathe.