POSTLUDE
The sun had long since set over the streets of Manhattan.
In a corner of Hell’s Kitchen, a little melody played.
The sound, performed on an old organ, seemed to be celebrating someone’s modest happiness.
As if it were declaring the end of one story and beginning to tell another.
It flowed, soaking in, echoing through the sooty gray streets.
Far and wide, on and on…
Baccano! 1932—The End
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