Gemotions

The morning sun bled weakly through the blinds, but it didn't seem to have the usual effect. Amelia felt heavy, like she'd been run over by a particularly slow-moving truck. She groaned and levered herself out of bed, each movement a Herculean effort. Today was the day she was supposed to finally start painting the living room, a task that had been languishing on her to-do list for months. The thought alone was exhausting.

She shuffled downstairs, the stairs feeling steeper than usual. As she poured herself a coffee, the realtor’s words from a few weeks prior echoed in her mind: “Charming history! This house has seen some interesting times.” Amelia had dismissed it as marketing fluff. Now, she wished she'd pressed for details.

The detective's card sat on the kitchen counter, placed there yesterday. The officer had been polite, yet persistent, asking if she knew about the prior owner. About what had happened here. Amelia found herself staring at the card, the weight in her chest growing. She felt the sudden urge to sit down, like the blood was draining from her head.