The music box

The music box sat on the desk, beckoning. Dust and moths fluttered about in the shadows. I pried open the box, and out she came. A damsel in pastel. Mouth painted red like a whore. I turned the crank with care, and after several seconds a melody emerged. I sat the box back on the desk, and listened. The music continued long after it should have ended, and the notes seemed too haunted for it's stature. Eventually the ballerina stopped moving. The song however, continued to play.