The call came at 9:07 AM on a Saturday, the kind of hour when the world feels suspended between yesterday's mistakes and tomorrow's uncertainties. I had been awake anyway, staring at the ceiling of my small but spacious bedroom, wrestling with the familiar cocktail of anxiety and ambition that had become my constant companion since everything went downhill just weeks ago. The phone's shrill cry cut through the silence like a blade, and somehow, even before I answered, I knew.

The music box had been silent for three months, but everybody could still hear its melody echoing through the empty house. She laid in the bed by the doorway, watching the family spiral around like tiny dancers, each one reminding her of the good memories within.