Eleanor sat quietly as her assistant, Robert, the thin young man with a nervous energy, placed a new case file on top of the old pile.
He didn't say much, but his voice always carried a dry hint of sarcasm.
> "Can't you just give me one file for once?" she said calmly, lighting her cigarette again. "Feels like you're trying to bury me in dead cases."
Robert smirked faintly.
> "It's a new batch. From Inspector MacGregor. Mostly suicides. Nothing special… I think."
She opened the file slowly, almost reluctantly, and began flipping through the pages.
As expected—routine suicides: hopeless teens, failed businessmen, stories of breakdowns and shattered lives.
But Eleanor knew better. Appearances lied.
They always did.
Her brows furrowed as a certain name caught her eye:
> "David Collins – Artist – Suicide under unusual circumstances."
David Collins. 35 years old.
A well-known painter.
Found hanged in his apartment shortly after multiple visits to a psychiatrist.
No signs of forced entry.
His body disappeared six hours after discovery.
The room was filled with bizarre paintings—unfinished, haunting, and filled with something she couldn't name.
Eleanor's breath caught.
All the victims… they were artists.
All had painted something strange—visions no one could understand—before their deaths.
She flipped to the attached image.
A painting.
It showed a shadowy forest, thick with fog, twisted human-like shapes surrounding a dead tree.
At the center: a red gemstone glowing like a wound.
She froze.
Memories crashed through her like a wave breaking a dam.
Her mother's screams.
The paintings.
The way she insisted she could "see" things before they happened.
How she'd drawn in silence for hours before collapsing.
And the night she ended it all.
Eleanor closed her eyes for a heartbeat too long.
When she opened them, Robert was watching.
> "Eleanor?"
> "Leave me," she said quietly, eyes still locked on the painting. "I need time with this."
Robert hesitated, then left.
Once alone, Eleanor stood up and walked to the photo on the wall—her mother's photo.
The only one she kept.
She whispered to it like a prayer.
Then turned back to the file.
Something in this case… felt different.
It wasn't just another suicide.
It was a key.
To something she'd spent her whole life trying to understand.