The Ghostwriter Takes Her Revenge

Thirty years ago, on a night that tasted of rain and copper, I stood at the edge of my life and watched it fracture.

Maxwell approached me, a glass of warm water in his hand. The tenderness in his eyes was like honey laced with arsenic—sweet enough to swallow, lethal enough to still a heart.

"Drink it, Lucy," he whispered, his voice a practiced caress. "It’ll help the noise stop. You won’t have to worry about your 'writing' anymore. The doctors said these dreams are just a symptom of your exhaustion."