Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the dusty table, its inlaid mother-of-pearl gleaming faintly in the dim light. Aunt Millie had summoned them all – the scattered branches of a once-close family – with a curt phone call. Now, she sat in her faded floral armchair, her gaze flitting between each of them. Her knuckles, gnarled and frail, tapped restlessly on the armrest. "I'm selling it," she announced, her voice raspy, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

A sigh escaped from Sarah's lips, a tiny puff of air that seemed to carry the weight of the years. The music box held such memories – her mother's lullabies, the scent of lavender and old wood. She glanced at her own hands, suddenly aware of the faint tremors in them. A dull ache throbbed behind her temples.

“How much?” her cousin, Mark, asked, his voice sharp, eager. Sarah flinched. The words felt like a violation. She wanted to disappear, to melt into the shadows of the room.