Ahce wrote as if the act itself could keep her alive. Her days blurred into nights, and her nights into the soft, endless hum of her keyboard. The words came like blood from a reopened wound, raw, insistent, unrelenting.
She wrote about heroes who vanished into the dark, about wars that devoured men whole, about lovers who waited at the edge of madness for someone who never came home. Every story she bled onto the page was another echo of Richard, another prayer disguised as fiction.
The readers adored it. Critics called her prose "haunting," her characters "tragically human." Her pen name became a phenomenon. Her books trended, adapted, and translated into languages she didn't speak. She smiled for cameras, held trophies under studio lights, and answered interviews with grace.
