This wasn't supposed to have a sequel. But it does. Now.

Thomas Jefferson was old. He'd had a long, eventful, meaningful life. He wrote the Declaration of Independence, he was Secretary of State, and President. He'd purchased a massive amount of land from France, doubling the size of their country.

In all his eighty three years, he'd done so much. Accomplished so much. And now, well, he was tired.

The sun rose. The sun set. He watched it all, listened to the sounds of the world going on around him. He'd come to appreciate it, long ago.

A man who he'd never called friend, whose death had been so sudden and unexpected, much too soon, far too soon, had opened his eyes. Pay attention to the world, while you're in it.

Alexander Hamilton's death opened his eyes to the little things. Because one day, the smallest thing could be gone and it might just leave you scrambling.

Hamilton had been small. No doubt. And they hated each other. But still. Him being gone had left a sense of wrongness in the world.

He was so, so tired. His friend, James Madison, still lived. They wrote and visited as often as they could.

Today was a good day. It was a hard day. It was July Fourth, the anniversary of the freeing of America.

But he lay on his deathbed, in his home, in Monticello. The house was silent. Nearly everyone was gathered in his room. He looked around, at the faces of people he loved and cared deeply about, whose company he had cherished up until this moment.

His sleep was restless. The doctor had been giving him something, but he woke, briefly. Someone who he couldn't see sat beside him.

"This is the Fourth of July. Is it the Fourth?" One of the people nodded. Ah. So long ago, they had first declared their freedom. So long ago….

The doctor was back, curse him. He waved his hand drowsily. "No, doctor. Nothing more."

His hold was slipping. He called for his servants in the house. When they were assembled, he spoke to them. And then, almost as if there was a little voice in the corner of his mind, telling him, it's time to go. It's time.

Thomas Jefferson closes his eyes for the last time.

And opens them again. There is light, there is something. Like joy has permeated the very air.

Suddenly, he's surrounded by people. His wife, his children, his family. Tears are streaming down everyone's faces, there is laughter and crying and he's so so happy. It feels like coming home, even though he's left his house far behind.

There are others, too. He shakes hands with different people he'd met over his life, who had passed before him. Among them is former President Washington.

And then. He sees him, standing not far off, dressed in that stupid green suit and coat. Hamilton smiles at him.

Jefferson laughs once, softly. And then he's striding towards the man, shaking his hand before clapping his shoulder.

"Mr. Jefferson."

"Hamilton." Thomas takes a deep breath. "Um, your death was sudden. And eye opening. And a little shocking."

Hamilton chuckles. "Are you saying you missed me? Oh, and I saw your flowers. Thank you, that was a lovely gesture. And I don't have anyone to argue with, so I suppose I'm glad you're here too."

Thomas Jefferson was eighty three when he died. He felt like twenty five when he was reunited with those he lost so long ago.

When his eyes had been opened with the death of his colleague, they could rest easy seeing him again, knowing they'd done something that would shape the future.

He had been so tired, and now he was, at last, at peace.