Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton (duh).
New York City; July 12, 1804
The warm summer air wafted in from the Hudson as Alexander Hamilton lay dying in his bed. Angelica and Eliza sat on either side, stroking his hair and cheeks and comforting him. He had already said his goodbyes to the children; he didn't want them to see the moment of his death.
He had seen enough of death to be able to imagine it. He had heard that in their last moments, people see a white light. But for him, it was more yellow, like the eye of a hurricane. He was back home, in the place he had spent his entire life trying to escape. But he wasn't scared. He was at peace. And as his brunettes faded from his vision, he saw another set of familiar, beloved faces.