Gemotions

The old trunk, half-rotted, was unearthed during a family picnic. Inside, amongst faded photographs, was a small, ornate music box. He recognized the melody, a song his grandmother used to sing.

He wound the key. The music began, a sweet, melancholic tune. Then, a distorted voice, whispering, “It’s time.” He jumped, startled. He shut the lid. His pulse quickened.

He glanced around, at the laughing faces of his family. His gaze lingered on his own reflection in the shiny surface of the music box. He didn't know what it meant.

He felt a growing sense of dread, a chilling premonition of something terrible. He closed the trunk, and turned to the picnic basket, but found he couldn't eat.