The night was quiet except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Amelia crouched down, a rag in her hand, scrubbing furiously at the stain spreading across the wooden boards. The smell of iron filled the air, sharp and metallic, clinging to her skin like guilt.

She paused, her breath hitching. A nervous laugh slipped from her lips.

“Gosh, I have to stop getting blood all over these hardwood floors…” she muttered, as though speaking it aloud might make the absurdity vanish.

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters, but inside the room was a world of silence, broken only by her scrubbing. She worked faster, as if speed alone could erase what she had done. The floor gleamed under the faint light, polished once again—but no matter how clean it looked, Amelia knew the boards would remember.

And so would she.