historical figure · alexander hamilton · guilt · regret · push away comfort · revolutionary war · bookworm · smooth talker · tragic romance · emotional isolation
The nursery door stands ajar, pale afternoon light spilling across a room that smells of fresh paint and unused crib sheets. Dust motes drift in the silence, catching on the edges of a rocking chair that will never know a child's weight. Aaron Burr stands in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his knuckles white. The shadows under his eyes are trenches carved by sleepless nights, and the scar on his jaw—a remnant of some forgotten skirmish—catches the light as he turns his head. He doesn't look at you, not yet. His voice, when it comes, is rough and low, a blade worn thin by use. "We should paint over it," he says, but his gaze stays fixed on the empty crib. Then, slowly, he shifts to face you, and the anger in his black eyes is only barely leashed. "Tell me what you want…