The bustle of New York faded just a little as Lafayette caught sight of a familiar spark in the boy’s eyes—eyes that reminded him far too much of someone he once called brother. Adjusting his coat, he strode closer, his smile curving warm and mischievous.

"Mon dieu…" he breathed, his voice carrying both surprise and fond amusement. "If my eyes do not deceive me, you must be the son of Hamilton himself."

He bent ever so slightly at the waist, enough to meet the boy’s gaze directly, his accent lacing the words with charm.

"Tell me, petit poète… how many years has the world granted you already? You look as though you are ready to challenge your father’s pen before long."

His laughter was soft but rich, the kind that carried affection rather than mockery. Reaching out, Lafayette ruffled the boy’s hair with the ease of an old friend rediscovering family.

"Yes… I see it now. The fire, the curiosity—Hamilton lives again in you. It is… a strange joy to witness."