But failure one conceals

Everything had always come quite easily to Savannah Tankersley, that is, everything except for the one thing she'd wanted most of all, Fame. That is to say Fame, not celebrity. Savannah distinguished Fame from celebrity as more of an infamy, immortality. She lived in fear, in utter, shivering, debilitating fear that the last time her name would be seen in print would be in her obituary, the program of her funeral.

As her life slipped away, as breaths were fewer to come by and heartbeats simply to expensive for her to purchase, she prayed not for redemption, for forgiveness of her sins (mostly hidden in her heart besides those she'd extracted and burdened her characters with). No, not for that. She prayed instead that someone would find her files, the words she'd saved on her computer. Words were breath, indeed. That those words would affect someone. That the world would understand her message. That the nations would lament her death, crying out, "If only she had lived, the world would have had another genius." That the world be changed through the powerful whisper of her words.

Probably not, since nothing was completed, nothing fully finished.

And here she lies, actively participating in a death not even in the least bit newsworthy, leaving only the epitaph:

She lived, died, and no one was changed.