A.K was once the most sought-after ghostwriter in the industry — the invisible hand behind bestselling authors and viral stories.
Until one scandal ruined everything. Her name became a curse, her career shattered, and her words, her only escape, betrayed her.

Then one night, an email arrives.
The sender’s name makes her heart stop.
Because the man who sent it… died three years ago.

He knows her secrets.
The kind she buried beneath grief, guilt, and silence.
The kind no one alive should ever know, including the truth about a friend’s mysterious death she’s long tried to forget.

Now he wants her to tell his story.
Each chapter she writes pulls her deeper into his world, a world that blurs the lines between reality and insanity.
Voices whisper through her drafts, shadows linger where light should be, and the haunting question remains:

Is she writing his story… or rewriting her own?

The story was never his alone.
Even dead men write too… they just need the right writer to bleed for them.

I didn't leave the apartment for two days.I told myself I was just tired, that writers isolate all the time. But deep down, I knew it wasn't exhaustion keeping me in, it was fear. The kind that tastes metallic in your mouth.


Every sound made me flinch. The hum of the refrigerator. The ticking of the wall clock. Even my own heartbeat felt too loud.


By the third night, I'd stopped pretending the typewriter was silent. It clicked sometimes when I wasn't looking, like it was testing the air. Just one key at a time. A slow reminder that something else was here with me.


I started to wonder if Kane's death had ever been real.Don't look at me like that. I know how it sounds. But tell me, if the dead can send emails, if they can write through me, then maybe they were never really gone to begin with.


I opened my laptop again that night. Not because I was brave. Because I was desperate.


The emails were still there. All five of them.And now, a sixth.


The subject line said: "Meet me where it ended."


My pulse jumped.There was no message, just an attachment, a photo.


It was the old car. The one from that night.Same broken headlight. Same dented side mirror. Parked in the same spot off the Jos-Bukuru road.


It didn't make sense. That car had been scrapped years ago. I knew because I'd seen it happen. Kane's brother sold it for parts. I remember watching it being hauled away, rusted and silent.


I zoomed in on the picture. My reflection caught in the window.But there was someone else in the driver's seat.


Or someone who looked exactly like him.Eyes dark, fixed right on me.


I don't remember closing the laptop. I just remember the sound that followed, my front door unlocking. Slowly.


I froze. My phone was still cracked on the table, useless. The typewriter clicked once, then twice, like it was keeping count.


The door creaked open.And there, standing in the hall, was Kane.


He looked the same, down to the scar above his eyebrow, the one he got the night she died. His eyes met mine, calm, almost sorry.


"You never told them", He said softly. "You never told anyone what really happened."


I couldn't speak.He smiled, like he knew that silence was all I had left.


Then he stepped forward, into the light.


Chapter 12 - THE MAN WHO NEVER DIED