Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its delicate inlaid flowers mocking Amelia with their beauty. Her grandmother had wound it religiously every Sunday, the tinkling melody a constant in her childhood. Now, her father wanted to sell it. He kept saying it was “just an object,” but Amelia felt a cold knot constrict her chest every time he mentioned it.

She slammed the silverware onto the counter, the clatter echoing in the otherwise silent kitchen. Her father glanced up, his brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything. The emptiness in her gut was a physical ache, a vast hollow that threatened to swallow her whole.

Later that evening, Amelia found herself staring at her reflection. Her face, usually alight, was drawn, the corners of her mouth pulled down in a permanent frown. She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she’d adopted in the last few days. Each strand felt heavy, weighted down with unspoken grief.