Write a story

Spinning.

The tiny clockwork bird danced (for want of a better term) in a circle, twirling, singing out its jaunty song.

She sat, watching it sing out its tune, listening to the unique tinny sound of the music box - there was something about that music, that paticular brand, which brought her back to childhood. As a child she had watched the bird, watched it in her mother's palm.

Her mother had, briefly, convinced her that this was a real bird, that this was what happened to them when they were caught, tamed. That you could teach them these songs, and they gave up their natural sound for that of the music box.

Her mother had been missing for a few years now.

She stroked the tiny creature - metallic, of course, smooth to the touch, shiny, eyes shining too bright. She had polished him last night, bringing him as a gift, as a memory - hope.

And yet here she was, outside the hospital room, afraid to go in, afraid to show her.

What if he didn't work? What if he didn't bring her back? What if nothing could do it - if she was lost forever?

She watched him spin, twirl, chirp - she tried to believe that he was real, as she had when she was a child, all those months ago. Those weeks ago.

Maybe she could make it r