Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming faintly in the dim light. Aunt Millie, her face etched with lines of worry, was talking again about the need to sell it. The rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed to underscore each weary sentence. The weight of the world pressed down on me, heavy on my shoulders as I stared at the delicate object. My arms felt as leaden as the silence that followed Millie's pronouncements. I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the sofa and drift away.