Common lore has it that after that fateful duel between Philip Hamilton and George Eaker in which Philip was mortally wounded, his parents lay on either side of their agonized son, helpless to his misery, until he died hours later. Alexander was especially affected by his eldest's passing, and fainted on the way to his funeral. He never fully recovered from his grief.

The darkening sky harboured a grim warning of oncoming thunder, a welcome break from the stagnant humidity that hung in the air like an immovable mass.

It didn't bode well for Eliza's husband, who had been sitting outside on a bench for the past four hours, as stationary as the summer heat.

"Alex?" She stood in the doorway, crossing her arms. "Come inside. It's about to rain."

Alex didn't move from his spot on the bench, nor look at his wife. His glasses rested atop an untouched book beside him.

"Alex, come on."

Again, no response. Eliza sighed and pushed open the door, following the stone path to her husband.

"It's about to rain." She repeated as she reached him. He held a small frame in his hands, a sketch of a handsome boy with mischievous eyes and a wry smile. Her stomach dropped and she took a breath to steady herself. Inside the house , her daughter was playing scales on the piano.

Un, deux, trois..

Alex couldn't meet her eyes. Tears dripped from his chin, where they gathered from steady rivulets from his eyes. He took a quiet, shuddering breath.

"He would have liked the new house, I think." Alex's voice cracked. "Downtown was so much louder, he would have been able to study without distraction. He would have..."

Thunder cracked above them, and Eliza could feel the cool rain beginning to dampen her dress, but it did nothing to quell the hot grief rising in her husband's body. So much like her eldest child, too intelligent for their own good (and both knew it all too well), bursting with occasionally manic energy, hot-tempered but kindly gentle to the ones they loved.

Alex bent further over, sobs silently racking his body. He had become sick last week, had barely eaten anything, and it showed in his already too skinny frame.

Eliza knelt on the slickening stone and held her husband's face in her hands. He reached out for her, holding her wrists as the rain poured around them. She could barely see as hot tears clouded her vision.

"Oh my son, my son," Alex mumbled, "My son, if only we could trade places-" His voice rose on a crescendo of raw grief until he let out a guttural yell that tore into Eliza's soul. Since the funeral, he had barely spoken, and had barely cried, instead avoiding all contact with everyone. So used to hearing their father's constant stream of chatter, jokes, and easy debate, their children had fallen into an uncomfortable quiet as well. Their home had filled with an immovable, weighty silence.

"Philip..." Again, his voice cracked, and Alex fell silent. Years, hours, minutes had passed, and the rain had slowed but left the broken couple soaked, hair stuck to their necks and clothing dripping, one kneeling on the cold stone and the other hanging from the edge of the bench, their foreheads pressed together. Eliza slowly rose. She pressed a kiss to her husband's temple, and he leaned into her. He returned the kiss to her hands, still within his, and he rose with her. Slowly, deliberately, they traveled the path back into the home with one empty bedroom and one missing place at the table.