Noah wrote in Scarlett’s study, buried in piles of papers with half-finished notes. Georgia wandered through the house, unable to decide whether to help him or sabotage him. Every time she passed by the door, she saw his furrowed brow, his hand rubbing his jaw, his gaze fixed on her great-grandmother’s antique typewriter as if trying to communicate with a ghost.

—You don’t need to use that, —she told him one afternoon, leaning against the doorway.

Noah looked up.

—Excuse me?

—The typewriter. Scarlett only used it when she wanted to feel nostalgic. Then she transferred everything to the computer.

Noah shrugged.

—I like the sound. It helps me think.

Georgia scoffed.

—And? Any divine revelation?

Noah drummed his fingers on the table.

—The story is more complicated than it seems. There’s something Scarlett didn’t want to write.

Georgia crossed her arms.

—And how do you know that?

Noah grabbed a stack of typed pages and pointed to the margins.