Eleanor Rigby Novel Novels & Stories

Ever since Michelle Xia debuted her work on ScribeSphere, Eleanor Ye was hooked, checking for updates religiously every single day. Eleanor, a novel enthusiast, couldn't get enough of Michelle's writing. Every chapter ended on such a cliffhanger, making readers eagerly anticipate what would come next. She wished she could delve straight into Michelle's backlog of drafts and quench her insatiable hunger for the story.

Taylor's POV The door clicked shut, but Eleanor Sterling’s presence clung to the air like a toxic perfume. It poisoned everything—the half-eaten takeout, the blankets we’d been tangled in, the fragile future we’d just sketched on napkins. For a full minute, neither of us moved. The silence was a living thing, pulsing with the aftershock of that cold, precise annihilation.

Elias’s handwriting was elegant, passionate, and increasingly desperate. July 1887: My Eleanor is fading. The light in her eyes dims each day. I would trade my soul to keep her here… September 1887: She is gone. The house is an empty shell. I hear her footsteps in the hall, her laughter in the garden, but it is only the echo of my madness. The emptiness is a physical pain…

'it wasn't. Eleanor sat down and pulled out the book she'd gotten from Gabby. What better way to divert her racing mind? She flipped pages randomly till she came across a page, which wasn't a page. It was cut into, with a smaller book hidden within that took up the rest of the page space underneath. She carefully pulled it out. It was an old brown leather cover with brownish pages. A pretty old book. She gently set down Bigfoot and opened the book, instantly getting sucked in.

My body feels heavy, my mind clouded thanks to my intoxication. Then, the door creaks open. My stomach drops as I turn my head. standing there by the door and looking at us is Eleanor. —*

* Eleanor buried her face in her hands, feeling as though she had lost all her dignity for the rest of her life. *Knock, knock, knock!* "Auntie, I have your towel. Open the door a little bit, and I'll pass it in to you. Don't worry, Dad and I know that we aren't supposed to look at a girl's naked body. We won't peek." Eleanor deeply regretted letting Theo stay at her flat; it was absolute social suicide. *Sebastian, hurry up and take your little human cannonball back! I can't handle the collateral damage!*

Lily put away her sympathy, fetched a spare blanket, and tucked Eleanor in. She then slowly began to tidy up the scattered mess around the studio. Once she had a moment to sit down, she glanced over to see Eleanor still deeply asleep. With nothing else pressing, Lily began to look around the small but fully equipped studio. The warm yellow walls were adorned with Eleanor's paintings, mostly of cozy subjects, and one side of the display cabinet held her published series of hand-drawn picture books. Lily had seen most of them; they were heartwarming, wordless illustrations, telling love stories through heartfelt lines, perhaps even Eleanor's own story. Although Lily wasn't privy to the intrica

Brianna stood near the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight, looking trapped between blood and truth. I kept my eyes forward and tried to breathe without shaking. Briggs’s hand remained steady against my back. That was the only thing holding me in place. Eleanor’s gaze flicked to his hand, then to my face, and something cold passed through her expression. “You’re making a mistake,” she said to Briggs, her voice lower now. Less sharp, more dangerous. “One day you’re going to wake up and realize exactly what you gave up for her.” Briggs didn’t flinch.

“I have rewritten the opening six times.” Eleanor smiled knowingly. “That usually means the first version was the right one.” “I wish I believed that.” Adrian leaned against the table. “Would it help to practice?” Nova looked horrified. “Now?” “Not necessarily.” She placed a hand over her heart. “You frightened me.” Eleanor laughed. “I think that answers our question.” Across the building, the library had become unusually lively. Oliver and Lily sat together at one of the round tables, each surrounded by a growing stack of books while Emily wandered between the shelves searching for what she confidently described as “the perfect story.”

I found Eleanor in the parlor. She was sitting in a chair by the window, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, her hands clasped in her lap like she was praying. But she wasn't praying. She was rocking back and forth, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, her lips moving in a constant, frantic murmur. "The child was never a her," she was saying. "The child was never a her. The child was never a her." Over and over again, the same words tumbling out of her mouth like a broken record, like a prayer she couldn't stop repeating. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen, her whole body trembling with the force of her grief.