The afternoon sunlight fell unevenly across the papers scattered on the worn oak desk, gilding the ink in streaks that made each word feel heavier than it ought.

Spain still lingered in his memory—not the sunlit plazas or the strange cadence of the streets, but the quiet weight of absence, the months of distance from the home he had once thought unshakable. The family, now, was an uneven stage of grievances and misunderstandings.

James, predictably, had sharpened the knives of judgment. His resentments were subtle yet persistent, threaded through passing remarks, through the clipped tones in which he spoke of the past—of Alexander’s choices, his travels, his perceived abandonments. Little Phil, the youngest, clung to him still, though barely more than a child. Eleven years old, with eyes bright enough to forgive the world’s cruelties, and small hands that still seemed to reach for reassurance. AJ had raised him from the time he was a toddler, nurtured him through the absence of father and the grief of the elder Philip, yet somehow the record had been rewritten in James’ mind: AJ, the absent brother, the one who left too soon.

He dipped the pen, watching the nib tremble slightly over the page. The ink flowed with deliberate patience as he composed his letter to James Madison. The words formed, steady and precise, as he reminded the former president of his return, of his time abroad, and of the slow, uncertain resumption of life back in New York.

A soft creak at the door pulled him from the rhythmic scratching of the pen. The motion startled him only slightly.

"Have you not been taught to knock?" Alexander Hamilton Junior—AJ—hissed sharply.