Rain hammered against the windows, a relentless drumming that mirrored the thudding in Eleanor’s chest. The realtor had been so sunny, so enthusiastic about the ‘character’ of the place. Now, standing in the cramped kitchen, the chipped linoleum floor felt like it was trying to swallow her whole. The detective’s voice, cold and clinical, echoed in her mind: “Murder… a domestic dispute… right here, ma’am.” She rubbed her arms, trying to will away the sudden chill that had settled deep within her bones.
The house creaked, a mournful sound, and she flinched. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, taking on sinister shapes. Eleanor gripped the edge of the countertop, knuckles white, and squeezed her eyes shut. She'd thought a new start, a fresh beginning, would help. Now, she felt trapped, suffocated by the ghosts of the past, the scent of antiseptic and something indefinable that clung to the air.
She opened the refrigerator, then slammed it shut without taking anything. The silence that followed was oppressive. With a sigh, she slumped into a chair. The coffee machine sat on the counter, untouched. She didn’t have the energy to even make a cup. The world felt heavy, and she just wanted to disappear.