Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windows, mimicking the dull ache in Amelia's chest. She’d been staring at the same cobweb in the corner of the living room ceiling for an hour, the damp air clinging to her skin like a shroud. The real estate agent, a chirpy woman with too much lipstick, had neglected to mention the history. Now Amelia's new neighbour had casually mentioned the old woman who died, found murdered, right here. The same four walls, the same creaking floorboards.

Her coffee sat cold on the table, a testament to her inertia. Each day felt like trudging through thick mud. The vibrant colours of the house – the sunny yellow kitchen, the cerulean blue bedroom – now seemed to mock her, a false front concealing the darkness.

She imagined the victim’s final moments, the terror, the desperation. It was like a weight settling in her stomach, making even the simplest task seem monumental.