The Music Box

She sits and stares out of the window, a music box in her hand. Outside some kids are playing in the park; a game of tag, children laughing and running around. But she sees none of it.

The music box is made of wood and old, passed down from generation to generation. It's edges are worn smooth; it's finish has dulled. But the wood is still beautiful.

Her hands absently caress the music box as she drifts between her world and the real one. Sometimes she remembers things like visits. At others she wanders the corridors of her mind. But she is alive.

She unconsciously opens the music box. The gears whir and a faint melody drifts upward. In her mind, the fog lifts a little; she starts to hum, faltering at first. But she remembers the tune.

The song ends for a few seconds before beginning anew. Her eyes, briefly clear, cloud over with a vacant look. She returns yet again to her own inner world. But for a moment she was happy.