Énouement: The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.
Henry sat down at his desk in the basement after the longest day he'd possibly had in a long time. Being shot by that flintlock was probably the most terrifying thing that had happened to him so far. Part of him had been afraid that he would stay dead, while at the same time, he'd also been afraid he wouldn't.
He glanced over at the picture of Abigail, thankful that he'd been spared from telling Jo his secret at the moment (cell phones did have their uses after all). But that was hardly the foremost thought in his mind.
If only he could go back and tell his past self where to find her in Tarrytown, this might not have happened. Abigail might well have lived longer. They could've been a family until the end, and Abigail would've died in peace, instead of afraid, and alone with that man.
Henry felt a sob rise up in his throat and choke him. How different things would be if his present self could go back and warn the younger more foolish self. Maybe if Abigail hadn't been involved, this never would've happened.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realized what he would've missed. He would never have gotten the opportunity to raise Abe. He might never have come back to America. And if he hadn't come back to America, he would never have met Jo or any of those he now called his friends.
There was no point in wishing to change the past. All things considered, he was the luckiest man alive.