The morning sun spilled across Eleanor's kitchen, warming the back of her neck as she sipped her tea. The quiet hum of the refrigerator was a comforting counterpoint to the gentle chirping of birds outside. A gentle smile played on her lips as she watched the steam curl up from her mug. She took another slow, deliberate sip, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest. The wallpaper, a delicate floral pattern, seemed to breathe in the light. This kitchen, her kitchen, was a sanctuary.
A knock on the door startled her, but it was just her real estate agent, a woman with a brisk smile and a file folder. The agent cleared her throat and began to speak but Eleanor felt a wave of profound calmness wash over her, like the tide. She listened, her hands resting calmly on the cool countertop, as the agent detailed the previous owner. Eleanor barely paid attention, letting the words wash over her.
"…a bit of history, actually…" the agent said, her voice trailing off. "This property, it was…"
Eleanor felt a slight tremor in her hands. The agent explained the house was a crime scene. A murder. She had to sit down. Everything remained tranquil within her. She was thankful for the solid structure of her life.