Gemotions

The cheerful yellow paint on the front door mocked her. "Quaint, isn't it?" the agent had chirped. Now, standing on the threshold, Sarah recoiled. The report, detailing a domestic dispute gone horribly wrong, had left her shaken. She moved through the rooms, unable to shake the image of violence, the whispers of the past. She started to avoid the master bedroom, the place where everything had occurred. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by an unsettling hollow ache in the pit of her stomach.