The bird of Manhatten

Epilogue - in which a story is told

Many, many years later
Manhattan, New York City
No one's P.O.V.

It was a warm summer evening in the early 1960s.
The busy streets of Manhattan, New York City, slowly began to calm down.
Quitting time was nearly over by an hour and the last workers were heading home to their families or to the nightclub and bars.
A lonely figure wandered through the nearly empty streets.
It was a young man of twenty-seven years, namely Mr. John A. Walker.
He didn't have a real aim.
He was in New York due finical reasons. He had been offered a job at the New York Times.
And now, after a successful interview, he just wanted to have a quite evening.
He wanted black coffee, for he didn't like alcohol, and a newspaper.
Eventually he found a small café.
It was a quite old-fashioned taproom.
The wooden table were clean and as he sat down a waiter came to bring him the menu.
John ordered a black coffee and a newspaper and leaned back, letting his glance wander through the room.
It stopped at a picture at the wall at the other side. He stood up and walked over.
In the frame was an old piece of newspaper.
With a pencil or a piece of coal someone had drawn on it.
It was just a sketch, but still beautiful.
It showed a girl or a young woman, around her teenager years. She was dressed in boyish clothes that didn't really fit her small, thin figure. Her shoulder-long hair was blown in the wind. She smiled. Under her bare feet was a hint of a meadow, a shadow of trees in the background. In her hands the girl was holding something the man couldn't quite identify. Maybe a small flower, but it could easily be something else.
The picture wasn't signed but John could read the date of the paper.
20th of July 1899.
He was lost in his thought, so he jumped when the waiter suddenly stood next to him, telling him his coffee would be here now. He thanked the waiter and went back to his seat.

He was half-ways through his own newspaper when an old man entered the bar.
He looked in his late seventies, maybe even his early eighties.
The waiter greeted him friendly, on which the old man just nodded and then walked over to the table under the picture. He looked up and began to quietly mumble.
At first, John thought the man was talking to himself but quickly he realised the man talked to the picture. He probably knew the girl.
Suddenly curious he stood up and walked over to the old man.
"May I sit here?", the young man asked politely.
The old man looked up.
"Sure.", he answered after a short while looking at his counterpart.
"Hello", John started again. "My name is John A. Walker, I'm a journalist and... I'm quite interested in this picture here. Could it be, you know this girl or the artist?"
The old man smiled sadly. "I know both.", was his answer.
"Would you be so kind and tell me a bit about them?"
"It's a long story, my boy. And a sad story. Are you really willing to hear it?"
"Yes, sir. I'd really like that."
The man nodded. "Well then, boy. The artist is me. I drew it when I was young. I was seventeen back then. And she, the girl, she was fifteen... no, she was already sixteen.
It was the summer 1899. An exciting year, yes. That it was.
And I loved her. Yeah. I really loved her. I did, even though I didn't know back then.
She was my sister, you know? A sweet girl. Sweet and gentle. And wild. Yes, she was a real whirlwind. She was a sister to all of us back then. Everybody loved her.
But let me tell you from the beginning. When I first met her... she isn't my biological sister, you should know... so, when I met her the first time, I was quite in trouble myself. I was twelve and was caught while stealing some bread. My father was in jail, my mother dead, and I was starving. They locked my up in the Refuge. A prison for underaged kids. Much like an orphanage just that the man in charge, Mr. Snyder was his name, kept all the money he got from the president for himself. It was my first day there. She helped me. Getting me a new name. a new life even..."
The man trailed off.
"But she's dead now. She died long ago. When the century was still young."
"Please, sir. Tell me the whole story. You could probably start with your name."
"My name? My name is Francis Sullivan. But you can call me Jack Kelly."