Chapter Text
The room in Greenwich Village was suffocatingly quiet, save for the ragged, hitching sound of Alexander’s breath.
The bullet from Weehawken was lodged deep in his spine. The music had stopped. The storm had finally caught him. Eliza sat beside the bed, her face pale, holding his burning hand.
He looked at her, and for the first time in years, he didn’t see the phantom reflection of Phillip’s death in her eyes. He only saw her. His anchor.
"Eliza..." he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. The fever was clawing at his mind, but his thoughts were suddenly, terrifyingly sharp. "My desk. The small drawer... on the left." She tried to press a cool cloth to his forehead. "Alexander, please, save your strength." "No," he urged, a desperate spark igniting in his eyes. "The paper. Marked... important."
Recognizing that stubborn, furious look, Eliza stepped away and searched the small writing desk in the corner of the room. Her fingers brushed against an old, yellowing envelope, stained with a ring of dried ink at the corner. IMPORTANT - DO NOT OPEN.
Her breath hitched. She brought it to him, along with a portable writing board, a fresh quill, and ink. With Angelica’s help, Eliza propped him up against the pillows. Every movement was agony, but Alexander refused to close his eyes.
He couldn't die with a blank space on the page. He took the old letter out of the envelope. He looked at his own tight, furious handwriting from years ago-written in the dark after Phillip died. He read the last line he had ever written to her in that room: You’re the one who pieces me together so I'm not so broken inside anymore.
His hand shook violently as he dipped the quill. The slanted eyebrows and beady eyes of his old handwriting were gone, replaced by weak, trembling strokes.
He began to write the final lines. But the piecing together is done now... I am writing to you from the edge of the world. The shot has fired again, and this time, it found me. I am not afraid of the quiet anymore. The terror is gone.
He paused, a drop of sweat smudging the fresh ink. He looked up at Eliza, who was weeping silently at the foot of the bed, watching his fingers move one last time.
Do not scream in the dark for me, Betsy. Let the storm pass. I am going to see our boy, and I will tell him how bravely you carried on. You are the survivor. You must be. Hold onto the anchor I am leaving behind—our children, our memory, our love. Tell them who I was. Finish the pages I couldn't. I have a thousands things to say to you, but the ink is fading, and my time has finally run out. I am satisfied. I am at peace.
Yours forever,
Alexander.
The quill slipped from his numb fingers, rolling across the blanket and leaving a small black trail before coming to a stop. Alexander let out a long, drawn-out sigh-the heaviest he had ever taken. The tight lines of worry and ambition finally smoothed out on his face. He looked at Eliza, gave her one last, unbroken smile, and closed his eyes.The room returned to silence. The scratching of the pen was over.
Eliza reached out, gently pulling the finished page from beneath his hand, pressing his last words tightly against her heart. "Alexander... my love."