Chap­ter 178 begins with Patch wan­der­ing the bustling avenues of Man­hat­tan, immers­ing him­self in the steady rhythm of the city that nev­er tru­ly sleeps. The noise of pass­ing cars, the per­fume of roast­ed almonds in paper cones, and the gleam of the carousel in Bryant Park form a sen­so­ry col­lage. Though sur­round­ed by ener­gy and peo­ple, Patch feels a lin­ger­ing empti­ness, real­iz­ing that the vibrant land­scape only high­lights the qui­et void in his heart—a void shaped by absence, long­ing, and mem­o­ry. Even as Mid­town puls­es with life, he remains teth­ered to silent reflec­tions, thoughts drift­ing to faces and places that shaped his path.

At Bar­bet­ta, a quaint Ital­ian eatery nes­tled along Restau­rant Row, Patch sits alone beneath soft can­dle­light. He savors hand­made gar­ganel­li tossed in a bright toma­to-basil reduc­tion, wash­ing it down with bold red wine that burns slight­ly as it slides down his throat. Despite the rich meal and invit­ing set­ting, a weight press­es on his chest—he’s not sim­ply alone; he’s drift­ing through a chap­ter in his life where soli­tude has become habit­u­al. Even the famil­iar com­fort of the food does lit­tle to shield him from his per­sis­tent nos­tal­gia. As he pays the bill, tip­ping gen­er­ous­ly out of habit, he notices the emp­ty chair across from him and imag­ines some­one who might have filled it.

He strolls down the cob­ble­stone paths toward the Brook­lyn Bridge, where the ear­ly morn­ing mist curls around the steel beams like mem­o­ry tak­ing form. The struc­ture reminds him of a night in Boston long ago, when chance encoun­ters and whis­pered con­spir­a­cies shift­ed the course of his life. Beneath the great expanse, the water lap­ping at the banks mur­murs reminders of choic­es made, of peo­ple lost to time, and of the thin thread that still ties him to those echoes. The city sleeps behind him, but his mind refus­es rest—haunted by inter­sec­tions of past and present that won’t stay buried.

At Union Square, Patch is swept into the crowd­ed mar­ket­place filled with vibrant pro­duce, home­made soaps, and the hum of city dwellers eager to secure week­end goods. He watch­es the crowd—young fam­i­lies, elder­ly cou­ples, artists, and executives—all woven into the same moment of ordi­nary life. He mar­vels at their free­dom to come and go, their wor­ries cen­tered around din­ner plans or soc­cer games, while his own life feels paused in a time­less echo cham­ber. For a few moments, he allows him­self to feel like a part of this larg­er world, even if just as an observ­er pass­ing through.

As the morn­ing sun ris­es high­er, Patch meets Sam­my at the ele­gant Plaza Hotel, where they claim a seclud­ed table in the cham­pagne bar. Sam­my, ener­gized from a suc­cess­ful art sale, boasts that one buy­er offered dou­ble after rec­og­niz­ing Patch’s grow­ing rep­u­ta­tion. They speak of fun­nel­ing pro­ceeds into funds for the fam­i­lies of miss­ing girls—a qui­et pact between them meant to offer griev­ing par­ents a pause, a breath, or even a step toward clo­sure. It’s a ges­ture of human­i­ty stitched into a world that often for­gets how to care. This moment between old friends reveals not just a busi­ness rela­tion­ship, but a shared moral com­pass that still points true.

Just as the con­ver­sa­tion finds its rhythm, Char­lotte steps into the room hold­ing a fold­ed copy of The New York Times, her eyes gleam­ing with excite­ment. She joins them, unfold­ing the paper and reveal­ing a full-page fea­ture in the Arts sec­tion, head­lined “A Pirate Takes Man­hat­tan.” As the three of them gaze at the arti­cle high­light­ing Patch’s work, Char­lotte turns away, smil­ing wide but fight­ing tears. For her, this recog­ni­tion isn’t about fame—it’s val­i­da­tion. A moment where her father’s name, once only whis­pered in pri­vate and weighed with com­pli­ca­tion, now sits proud­ly in print, cel­e­brat­ed by the city he once only wan­dered through as a ghost.

Patch, for once, allows him­self to exhale. He’s seen, not as a pris­on­er of his past or a shad­ow cling­ing to mem­o­ry, but as some­one who has left a mark that oth­ers can now see and admire. The joy in Charlotte’s eyes gives him some­thing he’s longed for—not just redemp­tion, but con­nec­tion. In that fleet­ing moment, sur­round­ed by the clink of glass­es and gold­en light, a sliv­er of peace set­tles into his chest. It doesn’t erase the pain or change the past, but it’s enough to remind him that even the dark­est sto­ries can find col­or again.