The Music Box

When Helena cleaned her grandmother's attic, she found a wooden box covered in dust. On the lid there was a painted ballerina, and on the side, a small golden key.

She turned the key, but nothing happened. The ballerina did not move and there was no music. Inside, a piece of paper said: “For Helena, when she is old enough.”

Helena was thirty-two. She smiled, a little sad. Her grandmother had died the year before, and she had never mentioned the box.

The next day, she took it to a repair shop in the old part of town. The repairman, a quiet man with thick glasses, opened it with tiny tools and studied the mechanism for a long time.

“A spring is broken, and a small piece is missing,” he said. “I can make a new one, but I need two weeks.” Helena agreed. She was curious to hear the song.

When she came back, the repairman turned the key and the ballerina began to spin. A soft melody filled the shop. Helena's eyes filled with tears: it was the song her grandmother used to hum while she cooked.

“I know this box,” the repairman said quietly. “My father repaired it in 1965 for a young mother. She told him that, one day, she would keep it for a granddaughter.”

He refused to take her money. “Some repairs are paid for in advance,” he said with a smile. “Your grandmother paid for this one sixty years ago.”

Today, the music box sits on a shelf in Helena's kitchen. Every Sunday, while she cooks, she turns the little golden key, and the ballerina dances again.