Prologue - The Man in the Chair

PROLOGUE - THE MAN IN THE CHAIR

THE PLAY WAS fine. Kinda funny. A little dated. But hey, it beat another night at the War Office.

Lincoln wasn’t even supposed to be here — he’d been working himself half to death for four years straight. But Mary asked, and he said yes. He needed the break. America had just barely survived ripping itself in half. Richmond had fallen. Lee had surrendered. The Union held.

For the first time in years, Abraham Lincoln could breathe.

So there he sat, slouched a little in his chair, long legs folded awkward, watching Our American Cousin from the presidential box. The man looked older than his 56 years — more bone than flesh, all shadow and sharpness. His face carried the war. But there was something lighter in it now. Like he finally believed the country might actually heal.

Then the door behind him creaked open.

John Wilkes Booth stepped into the box with a tiny pistol and a bigger plan than he had any business having. He wasn’t there to make a statement — he was there to end one. One shot, point blank. And just like that, Lincoln was gone.

The war was over. But the story wasn’t.

This book doesn’t start with a cabin. It starts with a chair.
Because that’s what held the Union: a man. Just one man. Trying to keep the whole thing from falling apart.

This isn’t just Lincoln’s story — it’s America’s nervous breakdown.
And everything after this chair? That’s just the fallout.