As the mechanism turned, the music began. It wasn't a tinny lullaby. It sounded like a cello played in a cathedral—deep, resonant, and impossibly clear.
The room went cold. The shadows in the corners of the workshop lengthened, stretching toward the workbench. Elias tried to pull his hand away, but his thumb was stuck in the groove. The hum he’d felt before was now a roar, a psychic static that filled his skull. The Object of My Affection
The antique shop was a graveyard of memories, but Elias didn't mind the dust. He was a restorer of "hopeless cases"—shattered porcelain, warped mahogany, and clocks that had forgotten the rhythm of time. Then he found . As the mechanism turned, the music began
The ivory woman began to dance, but her movements were erratic, desperate. She reached out, her tiny hands grasping at the air. Elias realized with a jolt of horror and fascination that she wasn't dancing; she was searching. The room went cold
The box began to pull. It wasn't just his thumb; it was his warmth, his breath, the very light in the room being sucked into the dark wood. The ivory woman’s face shifted, her sorrow replaced by a predatory hunger. She grew taller, the ivory turning to pale, translucent skin.
