The package arrived without a sender name or return address, and something inside me knew it was not a gift.
I was sitting in the sunroom trying to read when Maria brought it to me on a silver tray. The plain brown box was wrapped neatly with no markings except my name written in careful black ink. My hands felt cold as I took it. Victor was in meetings all day, Dr. Harrison was running tests in the medical suite, and the house felt unusually quiet. I waited until Maria left before opening it, slicing through the tape with a small letter opener.
Inside was an antique music box. Beautiful and delicate, made of dark wood with intricate gold inlay. My breath caught when I recognized it from the photos Damien had shown me. It had belonged to his mother. The same one in the old family picture
