The email sat in Eleanor’s inbox, a stark white rectangle against the gentle lavender of her desktop background. It was from a literary agent. They were offering representation. Her heart leaped. Then she saw the attachment: a side-by-side comparison of her short story, "The Whispering Pines," and a chapter from her hero, Silas Blackwood’s, new novel. The agent’s note was terse: "I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have known if not for this. Let me know how you wish to proceed." Her breath hitched. Silas Blackwood. The author whose words had seen her through loneliness, heartbreak, the slow, agonizing death of her grandmother. He’d stolen her words.
A wave of nausea rolled over her. She gripped the edge of her desk, knuckles white. She thought of the trembling hands that had transcribed her story, the late nights illuminated by the soft glow of her laptop screen. He had taken that, too.
Suddenly, she imagined Silas, not as the literary giant she'd imagined, but as a man, perhaps old and weary, facing his own demons. A thought bloomed: how must he feel?
She replied to the agent, her fingers clumsy on the keyboard, "Thank you for the notification. I need some time to process this." Then she closed her laptop, her own story, and Silas's, now forever interwoven.