Something is off about this place.

There are:

a small, open glass window, a lace cloth drapes across the windowsill,

a sheer curtain drifts dreamily in the invisible breeze,

an vacant bookshelf, shyly draws a faint gray shadow at the soft, distance touch of the blush sunlight,

a whitewash wooden bedside cupboard, with a single white lily stem rests by a cup of water.

When she leans forward and opens the drawers,

all of them are empty.

The disturbing feeling gnawls harder at her chest, and she realizes her breaths were caught in her throat.

She thinks:

This is a crime scene.

Whoever lived here before was murdered.

Physically, psychologically. Inside and out.

Whoever lived here before

Was wiped clean.

Not a trace behind.

She also thinks: she knows who the murderer is.

And who is his current target.