Alexander Hamilton's fingers trembled against the strange paper in his hand—glossy, impossibly smooth, with numbers and letters printed in perfect uniformity. One moment he had been working at his desk in Philadelphia, and the next... His eyes darted across Broadway, where horseless carriages of gleaming metal crawled through the streets, and towers of glass stretched toward heaven itself.
The Richard Rodgers Theatre's entrance blazed with unnatural light, drawing him forward like a moth to flame. He clutched at his waistcoat pocket where his spectacles should have been, then remembered he had left them on his desk. That desk, now centuries distant.
"Ticket check!" A young woman in black clothing approached. Her hair was arranged in dozens of tiny plaits, each one tipped with golden beads that caught the light. Hamilton found himself counting them, seeking mathematical patterns in their arrangement.
"Sir?" She extended her hand. The sharp rap of her fingernails against her palm snapped him back to attention.
"I... yes, of course." He presented the paper, fighting the urge to recoil as she tore it precisely in half with practiced efficiency.
Her eyes flicked between his face and the poster behind him. "Oh wow, you've really nailed the look. The coat's period-perfect." She leaned closer, squinting. "Did you hand-stitch those buttonholes?"
"Madam, I assure you every stitch in this garment was rendered by hand." Hamilton drew himself up, then caught himself. "That is to say... thank you."
The interior of the theater hummed with conversation, a familiar sound that settled his nerves until he realized the voices were discussing him—or rather, someone they believed to be him. Fragments floated past as he followed the usher to his seat.
"...best since Lin..."
"...heard the new cast is incredible..."
"...can't believe we got tickets..."
A child two rows ahead turned backward in her seat, pointing. "Mama, look! That man's dressed like the picture!"
"Shush, dear. The show's about to start."
Hamilton sank into the velvet-cushioned seat just as darkness fell. Music swelled from unseen sources—no orchestra pit that he could discern, yet the sound filled the space like water in a vessel.
The first figure appeared on stage, and Hamilton's breath caught. The man wore clothing of Hamilton's era, yet moved with a warrior's grace. When he opened his mouth to speak, the words came in a rhythm unlike anything Hamilton had ever heard.
"How does a bastard, orphan, son of a—"
Hamilton's knuckles whitened against the armrest. The woman beside him touched his arm. "First time seeing it?"
He turned, ready to defend his honor, but stopped at the gentleness in her eyes. "Is it that obvious?"
"You're shaking." She offered a knowing smile. "Don't worry. By the end, we're all changed."
On stage, his life unfurled in poetry and motion. The young man playing him captured not his appearance, but something deeper—the hunger, the desperation to prove himself. During "Hurricane," Hamilton found himself mouthing the words, recognizing his own thoughts shaped into verse.
When they reached the Reynolds Pamphlet, he almost left. His feet shifted, ready to flee. But then he saw something in the choreography—the way the dancers transformed his shame into something beautiful, his greatest failure becoming art.
A teenager behind him whispered, "This is the part that always makes me cry."
Hamilton turned slightly. "Because of the scandal?"
"No," she said, wiping her eyes. "Because he chose to publish it himself. He knew it would destroy everything, but he still chose the truth."
The second act continued, and Hamilton watched his death approach with strange serenity. The actor playing Burr raised his pistol, and Hamilton felt the phantom pain in his side. But here, in this strange future, the shot didn't end everything. Instead, it transformed into a note of music, carrying his story forward.
As the final song began, Hamilton noticed his reflection in the darkened screen of a device the man next to him held. In the glass, he saw his own face overlaid with the actor's, and for a moment, he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Perhaps that was the point.
The cast took their final bow to thunderous applause. Hamilton remained seated, watching the audience rise around him like a tide. They cheered not for him, not really, but for what he represented—for the messy, glorious experiment that had continued long after its architects had fallen silent.
He touched the spot where Burr's bullet had found him, and for the first time, felt no pain.