❝One doesn't need psychometric ability to understand.❞
A house seeker's love for interior design brings out the stories of people who lived out their lives in the homes that were made for them and possibly, generations of others soon after.
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Steve and Marcella Scythe were the last residents to live at Torchwood Manor, an old inn that was renovated into an apartment building in the early 2000s. They were a kind and genuine couple that didn't have kids of their own. They enjoyed landscaping at sunset and dancing in the evening—
"No, no, no. You're getting it all wrong. You're acting as if I don't exist."
I whirl around in shock, expecting there to be someone behind me or rather anywhere else in the room. To my surprise, there is no one else but me in sight. I have never experienced hallucinations before and I know that there is no one else in the apartment but me.
"If you haven't guessed who I am already, it's Edwine Scythe. I'm the child of two people who don't deserve to be parents. They locked me in my bedroom closet when I was four and cracked a vase on my head at seven." The voice speaks ever so casually as if the details of his childhood aren't so appalling at all.
Attempting in being a little less fearful, I respond. "I never heard of you, Edwine. Your name was not listed as a resident of this apartment."
"Just because I'm not on a list or my birth records weren't even approved of doesn't mean I don't exist."
"You're probably just a figment of my imagination—"
"No, I'm not something you created, trust me. Which brings me to an even bigger idea. Why are you trying to assume the lives of whoever lived here before you?"
Suddenly, my heart is beating fast. "I-I don't know, what I mean is—"
"Do me a favor and find yourself a home that you can't judge by the past experiences of others. Because it's not the life of someone else that shapes up what their home will be for you. It is you and yourself only, dear house-buyer."
A crackling form of static appears soon after the voice until nothing else can be heard of except the tears that slide down my cheeks and onto the tile floor.
