"I love you, Papa." Were the last words Spot Conlon uttered to his father as the two were torn apart and Spot was forced to watch Frank Conlon be dragged through streets. As young Spot tried to hold back the tears, his father and the captors disappeared into the mist. Word spread that his father died in prison, guilty of the crimes charged him. Spot knew otherwise, his father was kind, fun and caring not hateful, blinded, and murderous. Whatever the case had been, Spot watched the seasons come and go as a young seven year old newsie and after many years we find Spot as the leader of the newsies from the borough of Brooklyn, he is happy with his life, though by his facial expressions, one would never know that. The seventeen year old boy with such a strong legacy to his name, sits alone in the church graveyard. It is a cold, snowy, and windy night. The date is January 1, 1902; it is Spot's birthday. His thoughts of death and afterlife run rampant through his mind as he huddles in the cold to keep warm.
"Hello Nate, happy birthday," came an old but somewhat familiar voice from behind Spot. He turned quickly to find an older man perhaps in his 50s standing numb in the cold. "Remember me?" Spot's eyes widened with excitement as he realized who, in fact, it was, "Papa! Papa! I've missed you so much! I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead!"
The old man smirked, "It isn't easy to kill us, Conlons, son. They can try but they wont succeed."
Spot embraced his father for several moments, realizing ten years of stale, absent, black memories could be washed away and replaced with new moments that he could truly cherish for years to come.
Spot whispered to his father, "This is the best birthday gift, ever. I love you, Papa."
I wrote this at 1 am so please don't be harsh. I had a great idea and had to type something out. Thanks for reading.