I Wasn't Finished

When my sister bought an old jewelry box at an estate sale, she hated the song it played—it was

a distorted, slow version of "London Bridge." She took a pair of pliers and physically

ripped the metal music comb out of the box, throwing the pieces into the outdoor

trash bin. That night, she was woken up by the music. She opened the box,

and it was empty, yet the song was playing perfectly. When she closed the lid,

a voice from inside the box whispered, "I wasn't finished."