Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windows, mimicking the dull ache in Arthur's temples. He stared at the water streaks, watching them merge and run. Another Saturday gone, another collection of empty coffee cups on the counter. He hadn't bothered to shave, and his reflection in the glass seemed to mock him – a pale ghost amidst the grey light. He should probably get groceries. He should probably call his mother. He should probably… something. But the thought of any of it felt as heavy as the sodden earth outside.

A letter arrived, addressed to the previous owner. Arthur, out of some obscure sense of obligation, opened it. It was from the city archives, requesting more information on the history of the property. Specifically, it mentioned a "1988 incident." Curiosity, a rare visitor these days, flickered in his chest. He spent the afternoon clicking through digitized news clippings, his fingers brushing the cool glass of his phone screen, finding the story of a locked-room murder. His house.