The antique dealer, Mrs. Hawthorne, had just finished placing the last of her grandmother's porcelain dolls on the mantelpiece when the detective arrived. He wore a weary frown and his eyes were shadowed, mirroring the gloom that clung to the house since her husband’s passing. He didn't come to her door with a friendly smile, and the news he delivered hit her like a physical blow. Her charming Victorian house, the haven she’d envisioned filling with the echoing laughter of grandchildren, had been the site of a brutal murder. She slumped onto the plush velvet sofa, the delicate weight of the dolls a stark contrast to the weight that had now settled in her chest.
A tremor ran through her, shaking her frame. She looked at the detective, and her vision swam. The sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass window seemed to hurt her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Her heart thudded in her chest like a trapped bird.
"What…" she stammered, the word catching in her throat. She gestured around the room, at the Persian rug, the polished mahogany table, the framed needlepoint. "Here?" The room, once a sanctuary of cherished memories, felt suddenly tainted, the air thick with something invisible, something terrible.