The rain hammered against the attic window, a frantic drumbeat that matched Elena’s mood. She was a ghostwriter, paid to channel other people’s voices, but her own novel had been silent for six months. The blinking cursor on her laptop was a metronome of failure.
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Elena’s hands trembled. The woman in the photo was her mother. The car accident was real. The cancer? Her mother had never said a word. The rain hammered against the attic window, a