Author's Note: Hey guys, welcome to chapter NINE of the "The Girl in the Tower"! I'm so glad you're here! And thank you so much for your support! I really appreciate it! Please review, follow, favorite, and enjoy! Thank you again!

Chapter Nine: The Photograph

Comstock, my father, the man that kept me locked up in the tower for sixteen years, was now dead in my arms. He was bloodied and mangled, beyond recognition, beyond the face I saw in the books I read. He was seen as this savior, a messiah, a prophet in the eyes of the Columbian people, but in my eyes, he was lesser than any man I've ever read about. I once understood that Aunt Rose was the one responsible for my up-bringing, my isolation, and imprisonment. But I looked in the eyes of Comstock, and saw the truth behind them. I saw something so mysterious, something so beyond this reality. I was frightened by this vision.

I was still holding my father's lifeless body, tears wetting my cheeks as I whispered mumbled nothings into the air. Songbird stood right next to me as I wept for minutes. He was a brutal creature, but also a thoughtful one who was able to feel some shame over what He had done, even though it was done in the name of protection. Nonetheless, He killed my father. Comstock died at the hands of my guardian.

"S-Songbird..." I stammered, "I-I'm ready now... He's ready. Take him to the Memorial Gardens in Emporia. I'll be there soon. I just n-need... a few minutes." I wiped a tear from my eye, stroking my father's snow-white hair. Songbird slowly nodded His massive head and scooped my father up into His gloved hand, taking him away from me. I then watched Him fly through my opened tower window as he carried my father's body to the Cemetery, where he would be laid to rest.

Before I left the tower to meet my father at his grave, I cleaned and dressed, replacing my bloodied clothes for a white corset and a black gown. I carefully wiped myself clean of all his blood, which was on my face, arms, and hands. I then took out a silver key with an emblem of a bird on the front of it. I had taken it from my father as he lay dying in my arms. I knew the key's purpose, and that was an exit out of here, once and for all. I thought I could start life anew after burying my own father, knowing that I was now free from his grasp. And maybe Songbird could take me away from here, away from Columbia at last. Maybe He could take me to Paris! All the ideas quickly swarmed my head at once, bringing a bright smile to my face. I was finally free.

I ran to the library, almost forgetting to bring a prayer book; I remember Aunt Rose reading me a prayer each night before bed.

I wanted to give my father a proper funeral, something I knew he would have wanted me to do for him as a last favor. I then searched the library shelves for the book as I recalled where Aunt Rose had placed it. After a few minutes, I finally found it hiding behind another one of her publications. The prayer book was covered in a thick sheet of dust, which made me sneeze as I wiped it off. I then skimmed through the book's aging pages, looking for a prayer to use at the funeral. Every prayer was an ode to my father, written to praise his "godly" gifts. My father was less than a god, and even less than a man, but regardless of who he was in a previous life, the people saw him as a heavenly idol that was to be worshiped. There was also a statue made in his image; it was erected in Columbia Square.

I flipped and flipped through the pages, still looking for a prayer. There were so many to choose from, but I wasn't sure which one would be appropriate to use.

An old photograph then slid out from between the last two pages of the book, gliding to the floor. I quickly bent down to pick it up. I studied the photograph with curious eyes.

It was of a young man wearing a suit and tie- he was clean-shaven, handsome, and strict in his posture- standing in front of a desk in an office, which was probably his. The man's face, besides his strong features, was worn with fatigue and guilt. I saw the regret in his eyes.

The photograph seemed to have been torn at the corners, indicating its age. I then noticed underneath it was a name and a date, faded but still visible.

It said,

Booker DeWitt, P.I. New York City, 1893.

Author's Note: This concludes chapter nine of "The Girl in the Tower." Thank you so much for reading! I hope you all enjoyed it, especially the ending! :D Please stay tuned for the next chapter! And don't forget to review, follow, and favorite! I'll see you all again soon! Love you all!