Marcus was a down-on-his-luck novelist, desperate for his big break. He lived above a noisy bar and worked as a copy editor for a defunct newspaper.
The inspiration struck in an old fountain pen he bought at an estate sale. It was a beautiful, heavy thing made of black onyx. When he dipped it in ink and held it to paper, his hand moved with a speed and elegance he didn't possess.
The story that poured out was brilliant: a gripping spy novel set in 1950s Berlin, filled with authentic details and dialogue that felt like it was ripped from history books. It was unlike anything Marcus had ever read, let alone written.
He sold the book to a major publisher for a massive advance. It was a bestseller.
But the success felt hollow. He tried to write the sequel, but the pen remained silent, heavy in his hand.
One night, at a book signing, an ancient man with military posture approached him.
"Good book, son," the man said, his eyes sharp. "You really captured the smell of the Berlin air during the blockade."
"Thank you," Marcus said, signing a copy.
"Funny thing is," the man continued, "only four of us knew those details. My name is Kestrel. My partner, Agent 44, was the best spy the West had. He was killed in Berlin in '53. His last possession was a black onyx fountain pen."
The blood drained from Marcus’s face. The man smiled grimly and walked away.
Marcus rushed home. He used the pen one last time, not for a sequel, but to write a final, terrible truth he hadn't known he knew. The pen was haunted by a ghost with a story that had to be told, and Marcus was merely the medium.
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