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Description
He scarcely heard the whinny of the horses as they almost bore down on him, narrowly escaping certain doom as he dove into the nearest snowbank. The driver cursed at him as he cracked the reigns, continuing on his way, not even checking to see if the old man had hit his head or worse. The satchel with the broken strap that he had been carrying had slipped his grasp and weary but frantic he searched the snow until he found it, almost tossing it aside in his haste to check the contents within. There was another dent, but still it was not crushed. But did it still work? He grabbed the bag, covering his precious treasure, scurrying off through shin-high snow down the alley, round the corner, another, back to a recess between two buildings where the cool shadows turned the snow to ice. Still he crawled in, ensuring no rat nor other pest had settled there, then turning to face outward, watching, waiting.

Silence. For ten minutes he sat, shivering but listening anxiously, finally fumbling with the leather strap around his neck, pulling and pulling, gingerly, carefully extracting what lay at the end, the strap knotted round it thrice. A single tarnished key, too small for any door, which he checked to ensure had not been bent. Rubbing it carefully as if his hands in front of the fire he should be crouched over, the man held it in shaking hands for a moment. Finally, taking a deep breath he pulled out the object from his satchel, resting it on his leg and opening its lid.

The music box's dancing figure was painted over daintily by a child, the wood stain chipped and cracked from age and wear, especially around the lock in the back. The man stared at it for a moment, lost in memories, rubbing the scraggly beard on his face and neck, then finally remembered where he was. He waited, listening again, then inserted the key, turning it slowly thrice.

The music box turned as the man watched his wife rubbing her pregnant belly, humming along with it as he cradled their first-borne daughter in his hands, old enough to not need nursing, but in need of rest from a long day terrorizing her parents. He smiled at his wife and their lips briefly brushed before the daughter stirred, the music box having ended. He wound it again.

The music box played as the man painted a portrait for the duke, a man who most assumed did not care for children as he always froze whenever one ran by in the marketplace. The painter knew better, his two daughters playing with his used brushes and the music box's exterior as the duke watched and smiled with a soft sigh. Both had their mother's raven hair, her green eyes, but one her father's nose. The second, none could guess, save three. The third entered, blushing, but her husband merely nodded at her, giving a kind smile before returning to the portrait. The duke's eyes, however, lingered.

The music box echoed out in the night as the man turned it time and again, his wife lost along with her third child. The painter, bereft of any other patrons, accepted the duke's offer and continued to work for him. Silently, away in a cottage in the back woods of the manor, a notice given to a servant weekly for the duke to examine the work at his leisure. He grieved and painted and cranked the music box. His daughters played outside, in the woods and the meadow, their father not educated on the taxonomy of the local flora.

The snow fell from atop the two buildings onto the man, piling up slowly, his shaking hands turning the music box over and over until they turned no more. Three weeks later an urchin searching for a place to hide from the bobbies found a frozen hand clutching a wooden box, covered in snow and ice. It was dinged and cracked, with peeling paint and water stains, dented and rusted. He pried it lose from the stiffened digits, not even bothering to unbury the man to gaze upon his serene face, curious to learn more about his new treasure. The key was stuck at the end of a leather strap which he gnawed on until it broke, turning it slowly. The music that came out was off-key and with notes missing, the figure dancing jerking and twirling alternately, as if finishing a movement and unsure of how to proceed to the next. He frowned and considered it for a moment, glancing back at the out-stretched hand. The urchin felt a rumble in his stomach and patted it, hurrying off round the corner, then another, out the alley and down the street, dodging horses and pedestrians as he ran toward the pawnshop. It wasn't much, but maybe it was worth something to someone. For him at least, perhaps a meal, if only to dance with death one more day.

Description
He scarcely heard the whinny of the horses as they almost bore down on him, narrowly escaping certain doom as he dove into the nearest snowbank. The driver cursed at him as he cracked the reigns, continuing on his way, not even checking to see if the old man had hit his head or worse. The satchel with the broken strap that he had been carrying had slipped his grasp and weary but frantic he searched the snow until he found it, almost tossing it aside in his haste to check the contents within. There was another dent, but still it was not crushed. But did it still work? He grabbed the bag, covering his precious treasure, scurrying off through shin-high snow down the alley, round the corner, another, back to a recess between two buildings where the cool shadows turned the snow to ice. Still he crawled in, ensuring no rat nor other pest had settled there, then turning to face outward, watching, waiting.

Silence. For ten minutes he sat, shivering but listening anxiously, finally fumbling with the leather strap around his neck, pulling and pulling, gingerly, carefully extracting what lay at the end, the strap knotted round it thrice. A single tarnished key, too small for any door, which he checked to ensure had not been bent. Rubbing it carefully as if his hands in front of the fire he should be crouched over, the man held it in shaking hands for a moment. Finally, taking a deep breath he pulled out the object from his satchel, resting it on his leg and opening its lid.

The music box's dancing figure was painted over daintily by a child, the wood stain chipped and cracked from age and wear, especially around the lock in the back. The man stared at it for a moment, lost in memories, rubbing the scraggly beard on his face and neck, then finally remembered where he was. He waited, listening again, then inserted the key, turning it slowly thrice.

The music box turned as the man watched his wife rubbing her pregnant belly, humming along with it as he cradled their first-borne daughter in his hands, old enough to not need nursing, but in need of rest from a long day terrorizing her parents. He smiled at his wife and their lips briefly brushed before the daughter stirred, the music box having ended. He wound it again.

The music box played as the man painted a portrait for the duke, a man who most assumed did not care for children as he always froze whenever one ran by in the marketplace. The painter knew better, his two daughters playing with his used brushes and the music box's exterior as the duke watched and smiled with a soft sigh. Both had their mother's raven hair, her green eyes, but one her father's nose. The second, none could guess, save three. The third entered, blushing, but her husband merely nodded at her, giving a kind smile before returning to the portrait. The duke's eyes, however, lingered.

The music box echoed out in the night as the man turned it time and again, his wife lost along with her third child. The painter, bereft of any other patrons, accepted the duke's offer and continued to work for him. Silently, away in a cottage in the back woods of the manor, a notice given to a servant weekly for the duke to examine the work at his leisure. He grieved and painted and cranked the music box. His daughters played outside, in the woods and the meadow, their father not educated on the taxonomy of the local flora.

The snow fell from atop the two buildings onto the man, piling up slowly, his shaking hands turning the music box over and over until they turned no more. Three weeks later an urchin searching for a place to hide from the bobbies found a frozen hand clutching a wooden box, covered in snow and ice. It was dinged and cracked, with peeling paint and water stains, dented and rusted. He pried it lose from the stiffened digits, not even bothering to unbury the man to gaze upon his serene face, curious to learn more about his new treasure. The key was stuck at the end of a leather strap which he gnawed on until it broke, turning it slowly. The music that came out was off-key and with notes missing, the figure dancing jerking and twirling alternately, as if finishing a movement and unsure of how to proceed to the next. He frowned and considered it for a moment, glancing back at the out-stretched hand. The urchin felt a rumble in his stomach and patted it, hurrying off round the corner, then another, out the alley and down the street, dodging horses and pedestrians as he ran toward the pawnshop. It wasn't much, but maybe it was worth something to someone. For him at least, perhaps a meal, if only to dance with death one more day.