The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless rhythm mirroring the slow, heavy thudding in Eleanor’s chest. She traced the condensation on the glass, a small, involuntary act. Each droplet, a miniature world, distorted the grey cityscape outside. It was a day for staying inside, a day for the covers and a cup of something warm. She knew it, but still she stood, staring out at the world as if it owed her something. She’d always had trouble collecting herself on days like this. Now she knew her house, this very spot, was a graveyard of someone's pain.
The realtor's voice, chirpy and upbeat, had been the first blow. “Oh, by the way, this used to be the site of a… well, a bit of a tragic event. Nothing to worry about now!” The words felt slick, evasive. Eleanor had signed the papers, driven by a dull ache she couldn’t quite name.
Now, she wandered through the rooms, her hand dragging along the cool, smooth walls. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of unseen history. The knowledge of the past, the fact someone else had bled out here, was lodged like a stone in her gut. She pictured it, the panic, the fear, the finality. Her own life, previously feeling empty, now felt tainted.