Gemotions

The antique music box, a swirling ballet of polished wood and silver inlay, sat on the dusty table. Aunt Millie, her face etched with worry, explained she needed to sell it. The weight of her words felt heavy in the small, sun-drenched room.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. He remembered his grandmother, the original owner, winding the key, her smile radiant as the tiny dancers twirled to a familiar melody. It had been years since her passing, and the music box was the only thing left of her.

“Of course, Aunt Millie,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. The feel of her frail fingers in his brought a warmth to his chest. He would help her in any way he could. It was the least he could do.