The Music Box

This music box only plays when there are two of you.

You found it at a flea market, one Sunday morning, at the bottom of a box of mismatched plates. Dark wood, almost black, polished by years of hands. A lid that creaks. Inside, a tiny dancer, the paint on her dress flaking. A brass key in the back.

The old woman at the stall wouldn't take your money. She wrapped it in newspaper without looking at you. She only said:

"It plays when there are two."

You thought it was a sales line. A little mystery to make it charming.

· · ·

That night, you wind it up. Three tight turns of the key. You open the lid.

Nothing. Not a note.

The dancer doesn't move, arms raised. You shake the box a little, wind it again. Nothing. A broken mechanism. Fine, it looks nice on the shelf.

The next Saturday, a friend comes over for a drink. She walks into the living room, takes off her jacket.

And the music box starts to play. On its own. Lid open, the dancer turning, a thin little tune filling the room.

You both laugh. An old spring coming loose, probably. You talk about something else.

Your friend leaves. The door closes behind her. The music cuts out. Mid-note.

· · ·

For weeks, you test it. Your mom, one Sunday. Your neighbor, returning a drill. The delivery guy you let in for two minutes to sign.

Every time, the dancer turns.

And every time the music stops, she stops facing the other person. Never facing you. Always toward whoever doesn't live here.

In the end, you shove it to the back of a drawer. Then you take it out again. You don't know why.

· · ·

Tonight, you're alone. The front door is locked, you checked twice. Nobody has come by all day. The music box sits on the dresser, across from the bed.

You switch off the lamp.

In the dark, the music box starts to play.

The lid opens. The thin little tune. The dancer turns, slowly, so slowly you can hear every tooth of the cylinder.

Then she stops.

Not facing you.

Facing the empty side of your bed.