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.