An author dies the seventh time

When her trembling finger hits 'publish' on a new, foreign, barren site that seemed teeming with people and yet not teeming with people when her words force themselves out, finally, finally. It's like birth, or rebirth, in a sense. Not for her eyes only, a dollification of sorts. It takes a form for someone.

Or something. Like a ghost in between her and her fingers, a breath cold and chill and void of feelings. She senses the dead in her.