Prologue

Great crisis produce great men and great deeds of courage.

- John F. Kennedy

***

The worst possible thing that could've ever happened to Abraham Fletcher had already happened.

Although the occurrence took place many years ago, he remembered it like it was yesterday.

It was a soft Thursday morning in Ebeltoft, Denmark. The opaque sky wept profusely, as though attempting to warn him of what was to come.

He could remember the color of the tie that he wore (teal, flecked with black polka dots), the amount of hours he slept the previous night, and the smell of burnt toast and margarine coming from the kitchen. He could recall everything about that day - almost everything.

The only thing Abraham couldn't remember was what the two of them were bickering about. Sure, he remembered that it was something about how her work schedule had conflicted with another pre-planned event, but he couldn't quite recall every detail about the argument, no matter how hard he tried. It caused him to boil with frustration.

However, by the hour that the moon had devoured the sun, she was dead.

Work hours and sleep deprivation mattered no more - she was gone, and the last thing that he'd said to her was that she was selfish and didn't care about a thing in the world but her own skin.

And the thought of it devoured him for the next 30 years.

Sure, the two of them had never had a perfect marriage - there had always been small rips and tears at the seams, like a frayed pair of jeans that appears to be in good condition until you examine them more closely. But nevertheless, he'd loved her with all of his heart. No - he'd loved her with his entire being.

And sitting in the bleak waiting room that day, biting his nails until they bled and staring endlessly at one spot on the wall - it was a special kind of hell. He'd known it - the unforgiving jaws of death were closing in on his world with each passing second, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Only thirty-five years after her death did Abraham realize that love hadn't completely vanished from his heart. Rather, it had just been stowed away for a long time.

Following the tragedy, the burly man had moved across the country, and settled into a small complex above a vacant store (he would later turn this empty space into a florist's shop). He formed a new group of friends, with whom he did routinely community service. And most of all, he never let someone he cared about leave a fight without a resolution again.

And that little, abandoned baby girl had shown up on his closest friend's doorstep just a year after he'd prayed endlessly for one - a child of his own. It was then that he discovered that love was still within the realm of possibility for him. When it was ready, his heart opened up again, and he loved this child like he'd never loved anyone before.

He raised her like his own - brought her up, cherished every coming year and special occasion. Although the man barely skimmed middle-class wealth, he did all that he could to provide his self-proclaimed daughter with happiness. Because as long as she was happy, then so was he.

Abraham loved and cared for the child like he never had before.

And although in the end, she would ultimately cause his death, he didn't care.

He loved the girl - and so he died a happy, happy man.