It was three weeks after Burr had shot Hamilton, and these had been the three worst weeks of his life. The guilt had worn on him like heavy chainmail, and a gaping hole was left where his heart had been.

The rain outside poured down like the tears on Alexander's face had flowed when he had died, and Burr couldn't help but stare at the water whipping about outside. He had to deliver a letter today, so he picked up the soft piece of paper on the table, sitting up slowly. The leather of the chair made a soft rustling noise as he sat up, as did his coat when he put it on.

Burr stumbled towards the door, and splayed out his left hand in search of his umbrella, but it was not where he had left it. Aaron glanced at the umbrella stand, only to see an absence of umbrellas. The stand itself was still wet, from the umbrella earlier, but where had it gone?

'No matter,' he thought to himself. 'I'll just get the extra one from the hall closet. It should be in there somewhere.'

So Aaron trudged forth to the closet, opening it slowly as he could, and skimmed the contents. There were some shoes and many coats, but no umbrellas. He simply could not wrap his head around the absence of umbrellas in his home. Did the maids not know that it was the rainy season, and put all the umbrellas into storage? No, that couldn't be it, since he'd used an umbrella earlier that same day.

So where in the world could the umbrellas possibly be?

Aaron decided that the last place the umbrellas could possibly be was in the attic, so he hurriedly ran up the stairs and into the dustiest part of his home. He knew that he must hurry, for the post office would be closing soon.

As he swiftly ascended the stairs, a small part of his mind told him, ' This isn't normal. Go back downstairs and deliver the letter tomorrow.' But Aaron refused to listen to it. He was determined to get to the bottom of this.

When he entered the attic, he remembered exactly why he hadn't been up there for a very long time. The painting of Theodosia stared him in the eyes, as if to say,

'What have you done, Aaron? Why did you kill him? The most handsome, smart, cool person to ever live?'

Aaron stopped dead in his tracks. That wasn't his imagination- that voice. That damned voice was so familiar it hurt. He turned around, trying to escape the attic and his haunted memories, but was instead gifted with a full view of the ghost of Alexander Hamilton.

"Boo!" Alex said, laughing at the look on Aaron's face.

"But you… you're dead, Alexander…" Burr responded, obviously terrified.

"I'm well aware that I'm dead, that's how I know that I'm a ghost."

"Don't ghosts stay behind because they have unfinished business?"

"Well, you see, that's why I'm here. My unfinished business isn't Eliza, because she forgave me, so it must be you!"

"What…"

"I've decided that I'm here to haunt you and generally just be a pest. I've started quite the umbrella collection, as well."

"So that's what happened to my umbrellas!"

"Well, duh. I guess I'm just going to haunt you until you die or I get bored. It's cool being a ghost, though- people only see you if you want them to!"

"That's cool, I guess… But, just to clarify, I'm not getting my umbrellas back?"

"Sorry, but they're mine now."

"NOOOOOOOOOO!"

Hundreds of years later, When Lin Manuel Miranda's umbrella went missing before an interview, he thought nothing of it.