Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty shelf, its delicate ballerina poised mid-pirouette. Aunt Millie had called, her voice brittle over the phone, explaining she needed to "downsize." Now, the cold dread twisting in Clara's gut made her palms slick.

Clara reached out, her fingers trembling as she traced the inlaid mother-of-pearl. The tiny keys felt cold. Aunt Millie had given it to her on her tenth birthday, the year her parents had divorced. A mechanical waltz always filled the quiet house.

The thought of it gone, of the melodies silenced, made her chest constrict. She felt the sudden urge to run, to escape the looming sale. Her aunt's words, "It's just a thing," echoed in her head, a cruel counterpoint to the music box's fragile beauty.