Gemotions

The realtor’s words, "charming fixer-upper," now felt like a cruel joke. Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunbeams, illuminating the peeling wallpaper of the dining room. Detective Harding’s voice, a gravelly whisper, still echoed in her ears: "Murder. Happened right here." Her stomach lurched. She’d always loved this room, envisioning family dinners, laughter filling the air. Now, the space felt tainted, the very air thick with something unseen.

She ran a hand over the chipped paint on the windowsill. The detective had described the victim, a young woman, vibrant, gone too soon. A chill snaked up her spine, even though the house was warm. She couldn't help but picture the last moments, the terror, the desperation.

The thought of selling, of profiting from someone’s tragedy, turned her stomach. She’d planned to renovate, to make this house a home. Now, she just wanted to scrub the floors raw, to erase the echoes of that terrible night.