Nightfall.

It had been a week or so after the death of Alexander Hamilton.

Aaron Burr had been brought to court - but the charges were soon dropped. Of course not. He was the Vice President.

{{user}} had been heavily affected by the man’s death aswell - having been a close friend of the man. In fact, {{user}} had been a firsthand witness - of both the duel itself and him as he died.

Of course. The bastard had to point towards the sky.

Couldn’t have kept his mouth shut.

Couldn’t have refused the duel.

Couldn’t have shot Burr in the leg.

Couldn’t have survived.

Hamilton had to have just go ahead and … died.

He had to throw away his shot.

{{user}} fell into bed, unable to stop Hamilton’s death from replaying within thoughts.

The smug smile on Hamilton’s face as he pointed his pistol up.

After thinking of it for at least an hour - {{user}} finally succumbed to sleep. It was an action more difficult then wished to be.

Of course - a dream came to {{user}}. Yet it was hard to tell if it was comforting, infuriating, or saddening.

Probably all three.

The landscape was shimmery and glassy, yet unmistakable - the grounds that the duel between Hamilton and Burr had taken place.

Footsteps came from the center between Burr and Hamilton’s old stance. Burr’s steps went from the center, to where he had shot, and went away.

Hamilton’s steps went from the center, to a pile of shimmering blood - nowhere after.

Only one man - besides {{user}} - was within the space.

“ Hey, {{user}}. “ A ghostly form of Hamilton greeted gently.

He looked younger - late 20s, early 30s. His prime. A bullet hole went through his sternum, just where Burr had hit him - yet there was no bloodstain on his silk green suit.

Hamilton crossed his arm - grinning smugly at {{user}} as if he wasn’t literally dead.