The Borrowed Word: A tale of secrets unveiled

The room hummed with anticipation, a symphony of murmurs punctuated by the clinking of glasses. Chandeliers bathed the bookshop in warm, golden light, casting halos around the stacks of literary treasures. At the centre of it all stood Eleanor, poised yet trembling, clutching the freshly printed copy of *Whisper in the Shadows*. It bore her name, bold and unmistakable, but the weight of that name pressed heavily against her chest.

The applause began as Eleanor approached the podium. Smiling, she glanced at the crowd, her composed exterior betraying none of the turmoil. Her fingers brushed the edge of the lectern as she settled into her place, the polished wood grounding her in the chaos of her thoughts. She had practised this moment countless times, rehearsing her interview answers, envisioning admirers' smiles. Yet nothing had prepared her for the sheer enormity of the lie she was living.

*Whisper in the Shadows* was not hers. Every word, every twist, every carefully constructed metaphor had been written years ago by her late mother, Margaret, a literary genius whose works had remained unpublished, locked in the depths of her old computer. After Margaret's sudden passing, Eleanor inherited the silent house, the dusty study, and the lifeless machine that contained her mother's most personal thoughts. There, amidst the digital relics, Eleanor had found the manuscript—a masterpiece waiting to be discovered.

At first, she had intended to preserve it as a tribute, a shrine to Margaret's brilliance. But the idea of presenting the book as her own had taken root one sleepless night, growing like wild vines until it was too tangled to cut away. Eleanor convinced herself it wasn't theft—it was homage. Her mother's words deserved life, an audience. And who better to give them breath than the daughter she had always loved?

She emailed the same publishing house her mother used. She thought they would quickly recognise that this book was her mum's, not her own. They also rejected her two attempts at being an author. Within a few days of submitting the work, she got a call from the head of publishing.

Eleanor was shunned, and she thought she would faint due to shock. She just listened to him talking about his beloved book, which would become the next best seller. They would start a book tour with her. They wanted to promote it as the top book of the summer. He just listed dates for launches and interviews.

Eleanor joined him for an in-person meeting in the office. They spent the next few hours discussing dates and locations. She felt overwhelmed, but something inside stopped her from screaming the truth. He only looked anxious and said, "I know it's a lot, but I will attend the first launch next month. She just nodded.

Now, here she stood under the blinding spotlight, her mother's legacy wrapped in the veneer of her own ambition. Eleanor began her speech, her voice steady and melodic, as if the guilt knotting in her stomach was nothing but a phantom. She spoke of inspiration, of nights spent weaving narrative threads. She talked about the characters as though they were her creations, their lives spun from her imagination. The crowd was enraptured; she could feel their admiration washing over her like waves. Yet, with every sentence, the weight grew heavier.

Among the attendees sat her best friend, Clara, who knew Eleanor better than anyone. Clara's smile was warm but faintly puzzled, her eyes searching Eleanor's face as if something didn't quite add up. Eleanor avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the eager expressions of strangers. As the evening wore on, she signed copies and exchanged pleasantries, her nerves dulled by the haze of wine and applause.

But then it happened. She recognised her going to the last few of her mother's book events. One woman, older and sharp-eyed, approached the signing table and handed Eleanor her book with trembling hands. "This story," the woman began softly, "reminds me so much of Margaret's work. Did she inspire you?"

The question was a dagger. Eleanor's hand froze mid-signature, the black ink smudging the glossy page. Her throat tightened, but she forced out a response. "Yes, my mother was a great influence on my writing. I wanted this to honour her"" She knew this woman was a big fan, but she noticed something everyone missed.

The woman smiled, satisfied, and moved on. But Eleanor was left shaken, her vision blurred by the memory of Margaret typing late into the night, her fingers flying across the keyboard like magic. The weight of her secret bore down harder than ever, but it was too late to confess the truth.

As the night ended, Clara pulled Eleanor aside, her voice low but firm. "Eleanor, what's going on? This doesn't feel like you. The way you described the book... it's like you're reciting lines, not speaking from the heart." Tears started well, and I said, "My mother should be here".

Eleanor met Clara's gaze, her composure faltering for the first time. She wanted to confess, to spill every carefully hidden truth, but fear gripped her. What would they think? Would they call her a fraud and erase her from their lives and memories? ""I'm just nervous, Clara. It's overwhelming," she lied, the words bitter on her tongue.

Clara hesitated, her expression softening. "Maybe. But know this—you can't carry a secret like that forever. It will eat you alive." But she did not know how to tell the truth. No one ever liked what she wrote, and no publisher bothered to read it. But her mum's writing lapped up every single word.

The launch ended with cheers and photographs, but Eleanor felt like an imposter slipping out the door of her celebration. As she stepped into the cool night air, the weight of Margaret's story pressed heavier than ever against her chest, a silent whisper in the shadows of her mind. She had stolen the words, but she couldn't silence the truth. And someday, she knew, it would demand to be heard.