Gemotions

"Oh, it's just a bit of history," the real estate agent had chirped, handing Amelia the keys. Now, standing in the cramped attic, Amelia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty window. The police report detailed the previous owner's suicide. A noose. The attic.

She felt a hollowness in her chest, a vast, echoing emptiness. The air in the attic was thick, stale. She imagined the previous owner, alone, desperate. She felt suddenly, acutely alone herself.

She quickly backed away, her movements jerky, as if dodging unseen hands. Her fingers traced the outline of a crack in the wall. The house, her haven, had become a mausoleum, housing the memory of despair. The sunlight streaming through the window seemed weak and pale, offering no comfort.