"Look Into your own heart because who looks outside, dreams, but who looks inside awakes."

- Jane Austen

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Upon his awakening, the man's ears were greeted by an overwhelmingly joyous cry tainted with the relief of drowned flowers after a storm. For 'twas the sound of a child witnessing his one and only parens awakening after a long expedition of night terrors that racked his body and brought forth a feverish state.

The man's eyelids rose, and his irises were greeted by the tearful smile of his son, no longer a boy, but not yet a man. For some reason, unbeknownst to the man, there was a thought prominently placed in his head that he would not see his child for a long time. Oh, but how unjustified, such an idea was, for his son was seated there right before him, seemingly healthy and real.

Also, an occupant of the room, standing proudly in the corner, was a white harried woman, older, still, with kindness shining in her eyes and painting the corners of her mouth, "So kind of you to awaken, Andrew. You've gifted your boy and me quite the scare."

"You spiked a fever. Grandmother and I feared you may come to having forgotten who you are. There's talk of some other folks who have been in such a predicament."

The man found himself floundering, unable to speak in response to the boy, whose face contorted at the silence. "You do remember who you are, correct?"

To soothe his child's fears, the man found eye contact with the boy and shone a sparkling grin of reassurance, confusion leaving his body all at once. "Why, of course, my son. How could I forget myself? I am your father, Andrew Anderson, great author, and you are my darling child, Peter. In the corner over there is your grandmother, Mrs. Carolyn Anderson. Why we are in New York City, are we not?"

"Oh, joy! We were so frightened. We near sent a serving boy to fetch the doctor. What with all the cases of yellow fever appearing in the city."

The man, Andrew, rose from his bed; seeing as the sun was shining, he saw no reason to remain upon his mattress when there were things that he very well could be getting done, though he still kept up his conversation, "Yellow fever?"

Yet, his mother cried, "Andrew Anderson! What do you think you're doing? Boy, for you were just ill in bed. Sit down! Sit down, I say!"

Andrew showed no acknowledgment, "Mother, for I feel swell. No need to contain me to my room. Besides, my ears hunger for more about this yellow fever story," to his son, "It's in New York, say you? For, that is such nonsense, the disease resides in Philadelphia."

"Oh no, Father! I hear tales of it here, now. A terrible disease that comes forth with lack of warning, some folks dead in their sleep, others regurgitate all the blood from their body before withering away. I hear of one story, of a mother's daughter, home for the season, who coughed twice before collapsing dead by the hearth. What all the cases have in common: the eyes of victim turn yellow as a dandelion." told Peter.

Mrs. Anderson scoffed, "Dear child! Where does one hear of such tragic tales?"

"I'm awful sociable. It's hard not to be, running so many errands every day," replied he.

Andrew defended him, "He must make entertainment of it somehow. You understand, mother."

Still, despite her son's playful tone, Mrs. Anderson found way to critique, "Aye, well, perhaps he would not need to make up so many chores if you had a lady to do such womanly tasks, a mother to raise him right so he may focus on his studies. It would be a prideful occasion for him to go to college and find a wife, I think."

The response, "Oh, posh! I'm right off without a lady to bother about. I've raised a good, happy boy, whom I'm very proud of." closing the conversation, "off now, you two. Allow me to ready myself for the day. I have work to do."

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Hours later, when Andrew had dressed in his waistcoat and trousers and had placed himself in his office as to quill a few paragraphs, he came to discover a curious invitation piled amongst his paper. For 'twas a letter of formality, addressed directly to him, asking for his presence at a home gathering later on the evening of that same day.

Perplexed and without memory of the invite, Andrew proceeded to question his mother about it, knowing that posh gatherings such as dances were something she so often tended to indulge herself in.

"Dear mother," Andrew spoke, "whatever is the meaning of this parchment I found?"

Mrs. Anderson laughed, "Can you not read? 'Tis an invite to the Vandenberg's party this evening. Surely you were aware of this; we spoke about it over supper last week."

"If such an occasion occurred, I have no recollection of it," stated Andrew, with some disdain to his voice, "The Vandenbergs shall continue on tonight without my presence."

"They will not! There will be many ladies there looking for companionship, and seeing as you no longer have a wife, you will be there seeking romance. You tell them you're a widower in deep grief. They'll be swarming to lick your wounds," demands his mother.

Andrew stood in his own resistance, "I am no widower, and I am far from wounded. Please, mother, such an event is so dull, I would so much rather stay home with darling Peter, or perhaps we visit the theatre. Oh, anything but a gathering of such formality."

"No sir, it settled. I have already told Mr. Vandenburg of your attendance, and your arrival is expected by him and by me. Oh, and you will be an accommodation for the neighbor girl, Fanny Churchill, too, for she is too unfriendly to find her own escort. You've no excuse, and if you wanted one, you should've stayed ill in bed," Mrs. Anderson stated with a huff of superiority.

"On consultation, it seems I am actually feeling ill all of a sudden."

"You think me a ninny if you thought I would fall for such a statement. You are to go. It's settled."

So it was, as Mrs. Anderson made clear, settled, and hours in the future, Andrew found himself in the fine guest room of one Mr. Vandenburg's large abode. Fanny Churchill had entered by his side and left the moment she found such an opportunity. Quite frankly, Andrew could not bring himself to care for the whereabouts of the unenjoyable young woman.

Still, he found something to mourn when he found himself alone in a palace-like room, watching dozens of others dance to the swift music with their friends and lovers. Surely, he looked out of place, an abnormally in the artistic way of society, yet, no one seemed to care or notice.

He thought to himself, 'Perhaps I will show myself outside to the promenade. Isn't that where all the misfits are found, at least in the literature of romance.' Thus, the man exited into the cool air and silence the greeted him with the sight of the starry night sky and the dashing silhouette of trees in the distance.

'Twas more enjoyable outside, he decided as he continued along the open hall, passing decorative white stone pillars that lined the edges of the pathway. For it is quiet and calming and brought to Andrew memories of stargazing in the park with Peter when he was still a child.

"Peaceful, is it not?" said a voice like butter from behind Andrew, where a mystic young woman dresses in a midnight blue satan had kindly placed herself. 'Twas observed that she spoke softly in a low instrumental tone, for Andrew found it perplexing, perhaps mysterious. She continued, "I have never been one for parties. Have you?"

"No," he replied, "still, it's insisted that I come in order to find the wife that I don't desire."

The woman smiled, "Aye. Seem's were in a similar predicament then. See, my family too has sent me away to earn an undesirable spouse, though I suppose I'd rather become one who wanders. I hear talk of people going west to form more states."

"And, whoever did you hear that from?"

"My brother's tutor works alongside some families who happen to be very close to President Washington. Though, it does seem so hard to believe, doesn't it? Still, I can fancy myself exploring the unknown in a clan of foragers. Perhaps I'll wear breeches, seeing as I couldn't get far in a skirt. I suppose, if that doesn't work out, I've always dreamt of practicing medicine. Not that any of that could happen with my sex. Oh, look at me going on about all this. How silly of me! I will leave you now."

However, Andrew's hand brushed against her arm in a fluttering gesture; his eyes met hers, and accordingly, she stayed.

"Please," whispered Andrew, "I quite enjoy the company. I've got myself a son at home who can not possibly be quiet to save his own life. I find that time without him is... silent... dull."

Thus, the woman stayed, and the two looked out into the starlight, taking in the glistening joy of it all and breathing in the clean air of the muted sanctuary they'd found.

Although, soon, the pair's serenity was interrupted at the sight and sound of a servant man, unrecognizable to Andrew, running towards them through the lawn, shouting Mr. Anderson's name, urging him to follow along. Skeptical of the man's intentions, Andrew watched the man until they met.

"Whatever is the matter?" questioned Andrew.

The response: "Sir, please! Your son, Peter, has taken suddenly ill; you need to come at once!"

"That simply can't be true," said Andrew, perplexed, "I saw Peter this morning, and he was perfectly fine. How..." the writer paused, recalling his previous conversation with his son, "tell me, is it yellow fever?"

All it took was a nod from the servant for Andrew to take off sprinting down the darkened streets of Manhattan in a mad fury of panic.

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The journey to the Anderson home was far too long and strenuous for a person to run without collapsing at the door, yet by some fatherly miracle, Andrew made do. He arrived, greeted by a solemn feeling misting the air, for the house was so eerily silent, only broken by the writer screaming until his throat was dry.

"Peter! Peter!"

His cries were met by a small whisper of his name by his mother, "Andrew... baby," he spun around and was met by her taking advantage of the quiet, tentatively taking his hands before moving to touch his cheek, "I'm so sorry..."

Yet, Andrew looked past his mother to the dark bed, in a dark room, bearing a dark figure. He stumbled, practically falling into the room and collapsing by the bedside. For there, his child was laid out, discolored and limp, his short dark hair messily pressed against his face, in stark contrast.

"He was gone before the doctor got here," someone said from behind him, though by now, he was far too deep in shock to decipher who.

It seemed entirely impossible that the bright, shining boy who had been laughing only this morning was now stripped of his soul and lay lifeless before his father, who couldn't fathom the weight of grief.

Thus, avoiding the feeling entirely, the writer, who had crafted so many realities before, strayed away from his own, wanting desperately to hold onto something different.

Watching his own tears blur the face of his once breathing son, the writer breathed a simple command...

"No..."

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