Historians enlarged this 1868 family photo. What they found on the table broke their hearts. The cold October morning light streamed through the tall windows of the Hartford Historical Archive in Connecticut. Casting elongated shadows across the polished wooden tables, Dr. Sarah Mitchell adjusted her glasses and carefully opened the cardboard box marked with the year 1868.

 At 42 years old, Sarah had dedicated the past two decades to studying Victorian photographs. But each new discovery still quickened her heart as if it were the first time. Inside the box, wrapped in tissue paper yellowed by time, rested dozens of old photographs. Sarah picked up the first one with her white cotton gloves, feeling the weight of history between her fingers.

 It was a family image, five people posing with the characteristic rigidity of the era when photographic exposures took several seconds and required absolute stillness. The photo showed a middle-aged couple and three children. The father, a man with a dark beard and military posture, stood on the left with his hand resting on the shoulder of a teenage boy.

 The mother, wearing a dark high-necked dress and hair pulled back in a severe bun, remained on the right, her eyes fixed on the camera. Between them, two sons, a boy of approximately 15 and another around 12, both standing, wearing identical suits. And in the center, seated in an ornate chair of faded red velvet, a smaller boy appearing to be seven or eight years old.

 Sarah picked up her digital magnifying glass, bringing it close to the image. It was part of her routine to examine every detail. Clothing, furniture, objects in the background, everything told a story about life in the 19th century. But something about that photo made her pause. The seated boy. There was something different about him.

 His posture was strangely rigid, even by Victorian photography standards. His hands rested on his knees in an artificial, almost theatrical manner, and his eyes. Sarah enlarged the image on her computer, digitizing it with her highresolution scanner. The computer emitted a soft beep. The image was ready.

 Sarah clicked to enlarge the seated boy’s face. Her heart raced. His eyes didn’t focus on anything. There was a disturbing absence in his gaze. A lack of life that transcended simple photographic stillness. She knew that look. She had seen it in dozens of photographs throughout her career. She moved the cursor to examine the background where a dark wooden table appeared partially.

 On the table, almost imperceptible in the penumbumber of the old photograph rested two objects. A small wooden horse and what appeared to be a folded letter. Sarah zoomed in further. Her hands trembled slightly over the mouse. This wasn’t just a common family photograph. It was something much darker, much sadder. Sarah couldn’t get the photograph out of her head during lunch.

 Sitting in a small cafe two blocks from the archive, she absent-mindedly picked at her salad while reviewing the digitized image on her tablet. The waitress, a young woman with red hair named Emma, approached with a water pitcher. “Everything okay with the food, doctor.” “Mitchell?” “Yes, thank you, Emma.

” Sarah responded, forcing a smile, just distracted with work. When Emma walked away, Sarah opened the image again. Under the natural light entering through the storefront window, the photo seemed even more disturbing. She zoomed in on the seated boy’s face, studying every pixel. His skin had an unnatural power, even considering the technical limitations of 1868 photography.

 There wasn’t the slightest indication of movement, something inevitable in children that age, even in the long exposures of the era. But that boy was perfectly still. Sarah knew the answer, but needed confirmation. She returned to the archive at 2:00 in the afternoon, climbing the stone steps worn by time. The receptionist, Mrs.

 Dorothy Chen, a 70-year-old woman who had worked there for four decades, looked up over her reading glasses. Back quickly today. Found something interesting, Dorothy. I need access to Hartford death records between 1867 and 1869. Ah, another one of your investigations. Dorothy smiled affectionately. The books are in section D, shelf 6.

 Sarah already knew every corner of that archive. She walked quickly between tall shelves filled with leather-bound documents, feeling the familiar smell of old paper and dust. She found the volumes she was looking for and carried three of them to her work table. She opened the first death records, Hartford County, 1868. The yellowed pages contained hundreds of names written by hand in faded black ink.

 Sarah ran her gloved fingers along the lines, searching for any clue. children, many children. Infant mortality in the 19th century was devastatingly high scarlet fever, dtheria, tuberculosis, domestic accidents. Each name was a tragedy forgotten by time. She stopped on the march page. Her finger froze over a specific entry.

 Thomas William, son of Jonathan and Elizabeth William. Birth, April 14th, 1860. Death March 8th, 1868. Cause scarlet fever. Age 7 years and 11 months. Sarah felt her stomach tighten. She picked up the photograph again and compared the dates. The handwriting on the back of the photo said, “William family, March 1868. Coincidence? Unlikely.

” Below Thomas’s name, there was an additional note written in smaller letters. Memorial photograph commissioned photographer Mr. Augustus Whitmore. Establishment on Church Street. Memorial photograph. There was the confirmation. The next morning, Sarah woke before the alarm. She had dreamed of the photograph, the boy seated in the chair, the parents with petrified expressions of pain, the brothers trying to remain strong.

 She prepared strong coffee and toast, but barely touched breakfast. Her mind was already at the archive, in the records, and the story beginning to unfold. By 8:30, she was back at the historical archive. This time, carrying her backpack with laptop, notebooks, and camera. Dorothy hadn’t arrived yet, but the morning assistant, a young history student named Marcus, greeted her with a wave. Good morning, Dr. Mitchell.

Starting early today. I have an important investigation, Marcus. I need Hartford business directories, 1860s and 1870s. Sarah knew those volumes well. Business directories were gold mines for historians. They listed every establishment, merchant, and professional in a city yearbyear. If photographer Augustus Whitmore had worked in Hartford in 1868, his name would be there.

 She found the 1868 volume and opened it carefully. The paper was brittle, requiring delicacy. She flipped to the section photographers and dagger typists. There it was. Whitmore Augustus J. Photography and portraits. Specialty in family and memorial portraits. Church Street 45 established 1862. Memorial. The word confirmed everything.

 Sarah photographed the page and continued researching. She found Whitmore’s advertisements in old Hartford newspapers small advertising squares promising portraits of incomparable quality and sensitivity in delicate moments. An 1867 advertisement in the Hartford kurat read, “We preserve your most precious memories with dignity and respect.

 Special services available for families in mourning.” It was coded language. Special services meant post-mortem photography. Sarah made more notes, then grabbed the 1869 volume. Hoodmore’s name still appeared, but with an additional note, establishment transferred to New Haven, and in 1870, the name had completely disappeared from Hartford Records.

 At 11:00, she grabbed her coat and left the archive. The day was cloudy with that damp, cold, typical of autumn in Connecticut. She walked 15 minutes to Church Street, a narrow street in the historic downtown lined with 19th century brick buildings now housing shops, offices, and restaurants. Number Su was a cafe called the Roasted Bean. Sarah entered.

 Feeling the aroma of freshly ground coffee and the welcoming warmth of the environment. The interior had been modernized, but the building’s original structure remained. High ceiling with exposed beams, large windows with antique frames, wooden floor that creaked underfoot. A young barista with a nose piercing and lavender colored hair smiled at her.

“Good morning. What can I get you?” “A cappuccino, please.” Sarah looked around. “Can I ask a strange question?” “Sure.” The girl began preparing the coffee. “Do you know how long this cafe has been here?” “Oh, about 10 years, I think, but the building is much older.” The owner said it was some kind of studio before. Photography, I think.

Sarah’s heart accelerated. Photography? Yes, exactly. At 2:15, an elderly woman entered the cafe. Short white hair, glasses hanging on a chain, a green wool coat. The barista discreetly waved to Sarah, who approached the woman. Excuse me, ma’am. My name is Sarah Mitchell. I’m a historian.

 I heard you know the history of this building well. The woman smiled warmly. Oh, yes. I’m Patricia Holloway. I was born and raised in Hartford. My lay husband was president of the local historical society. Please sit down, dear. They sat together and Sarah explained her research. Patricia listened attentively, her eyes shining with interest. Augustus Whitmore.

 Of course, I know that name. He was quite wellknown at the time, especially for his work with, well, with the more difficult photographs. Patricia lowered her voice. Photographs of the dead. Exactly. I’m investigating a specific photograph he took in March 1,868. A family called William. Patricia’s face changed.

 Something moved in her expression. Surprise, perhaps recognition. William, Jonathan and Elizabeth. William. Sarah felt a shock run through her body. Yes. Do you know this family? Patricia nodded slowly, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up her teacup. I know their story. It’s one of Hartford’s saddest. Patricia stirred her tea slowly as if gathering thoughts scattered across decades.

 The afternoon darkened outside and the cafees warm light created a bubble of intimacy between the two women. The William family lived on Maple Street in a two-story white wooden house with blue shutters. My grandfather knew Jonathan William. They worked together at a textile factory near the Connecticut River.

 Patricia paused, her eyes distant. My grandfather used to tell stories about those times. Hartford was smaller then. Everyone knew everyone, at least in the working-class neighborhoods. Sarah took out her notebook, but Patricia gently held her hand. Leave the notebook aside for now, dear. Just listen. Jonathan William was a good man, hardworking, serious.

 He came from England, immigrated in 1855 with hopes of a better life. He met Elizabeth here, a local girl from an Irish family. They married in 1856, young, full of dreams. Patricia smiled sadly. They had three children, Robert, the eldest, then Michael, and lastly, Thomas, the baby of the family, born in 1860. Thomas’s name made Sarah shiver.

Thomas was special. According to my grandfather, a joyful child, curious, always asking questions about everything. He loved horses, dreamed of working in a stable when he grew up. Jonathan had promised to buy him a real horse when he turned 10. Patricia picked up a napkin and discreetly wiped her eyes. He never reached 10 years old.

“Scarlet fever,” Sarah murmured. “Yes, it was in the winter of 1868. one of the harshest Hartford had ever seen. Patricia continued, her voice steady but heavy with the weight of old sorrow. Thomas began feeling ill in late February. First it was just a sore throat, then high fever, the characteristic red rash of the disease.

Elizabeth cared for him day and night, applying cold compresses, making him drink water, praying beside his bed. But medicine of that era was limited. There were no antibiotics, no modern hospitals. He died at home. Yes. On the morning of March 8th, just before dawn, Elizabeth was beside him, holding his hand. He was only 7 years old.

 Patricia closed her eyes for a moment. My grandfather said the funeral was on a terrible day snow and strong wind. The cemetery covered in white. Jonathan carried the small coffin in his arms. Elizabeth didn’t stop crying during the entire ceremony. The cafe around them seemed to have grown quieter, as if the very atmosphere respected the sadness of that ancient story. But there’s more.

Patricia continued, her voice low, something few people know. Elizabeth couldn’t accept that Thomas had gone. She insisted on doing something that was well common at the time, but still painful. She wanted a photograph. The post-mortem photograph, Sarah said softly. Exactly. Jonathan initially refused.

 He thought it morbid wrong, but Elizabeth begged. She said they had no photograph of Thomas. Photographs were expensive, and they had always postponed it, waiting to have enough money. Now it was too late. This would be their only chance to have an image of their son, to prove he had existed, that he wasn’t just a memory that would fade with time.

Sarah imagined Elizabeth, devastated, desperate, pleading with her husband. Jonathan gave in. 3 days after the funeral, they went to Augustus Whitmore studio. They brought Thomas. His body had been prepared, dressed in his best Sunday clothes, that dark suit he wore to church. They also brought Robert and Michael, the brothers.

 Elizabeth insisted it be a complete family photograph altogether one last time and the objects on the table. Sarah asked unable to contain her curiosity. Patricia nodded slowly. The wooden horse was Thomas’s favorite toy. Jonathan had carved it with his own hands working nights after his factory shift as a Christmas present for the boy.

 Thomas took that horse everywhere, slept with it, played with it in the yard, invented elaborate stories about riding across the plains like cowboys. The image was simultaneously sweet and devastating. And the letter, Sarah could barely ask the question. Patricia took a deep breath. The letter was from Thomas. He had written it to Jonathan a few months before becoming ill.

 It was just a few lines Thomas was learning to write. He was only 7 years old. The letter said, “Dear Papa, thank you for the horse. When I grow up, I will buy a real horse for you, too. With love, Tommy.” Sarah felt hot tears streaming down her face. She didn’t try to stop them. Elizabeth placed both objects on the table during the photograph.

 Sarah remained seated in silence, processing everything Patricia had told her. The cafe around them continued its normal routine, but Sarah felt suspended in a temporal bubble connected to 1868 to the William family’s pain. What happened after the photograph? She finally asked. Patricia sighed deeply. Elizabeth never recovered. In fact, she got worse.

 My grandfather used to say she became a shadow of herself. She stopped eating properly, stopped taking care of the house, would spend hours staring out the window as if expecting to see Thomas playing in the yard. Depression, Sarah murmured. Today, we’d recognize it as complicated grief, severe depression. In those days, they called it melancholia, and there was no real treatment.

 Doctors prescribed useless tonics. Churches said to pray more. Jonathan tried everything, took her for walks, invited relatives to visit, even suggested they have another baby. But nothing worked. Patricia paused to drink more tea, her hands trembling slightly. Robert and Michael suffered too, but differently.

 Robert, the eldest, was 15 when Thomas died. He took on extra responsibilities, trying to help his father at the factory, caring for Michael, trying to be strong for his mother. But inside, he was shattered, too. Thomas was his little brother, the one he protected in the schoolyard for whom he told bedtime stories.

 And Michael, Sarah asked gently, Michael was 12. He and Thomas were closer in age, played together constantly. After Thomas’s death, Michael became quiet, withdrawn. He stopped playing with other neighborhood boys, began having nightmares. Once, according to my grandfather, Michael was found in the cemetery, sitting beside Thomas’s grave, talking to him as if he were alive.

 Sarah felt a tightness in her chest. The tragedy hadn’t destroyed just one life, but had radiated its pain throughout the entire family, wounding each member in different ways. The photograph hung in the William house living room. Patricia continued. Elizabeth looked at it every day, sometimes for hours. She said it was her way of keeping Thomas alive, of not forgetting him.

 But Jonathan began to worry. He thought the photograph was preventing Elizabeth from moving forward, from healing. He wanted to remove it. He suggested it once. Elizabeth reacted with a fury no one imagined she still possessed. She screamed that he wanted to erase Thomas to pretend their son had never existed. Jonathan never mentioned it again.

Outside, rain began to fall, soft drops beating against the cafe’s storefront window. The sound was melancholic, appropriate for the story Sarah was hearing. Months passed. Summer came, then autumn. Life continued in Hartford factories operated. Children played in the streets. Families celebrated holidays.

 But in the William house on Maple Street, time seemed to have stopped in March. Patricia paused, her face hardening with an even deeper sadness. And then in November 1868, everything got worse. Sarah leaned forward, her coffee longforgotten and cold. What happened in November? Patricia’s hands tightened around her teacup.

 Elizabeth began having dot dot dot visions. Or at least that’s what she said. She claimed she saw Thomas in the house playing with his wooden horse running up the stairs. She talked to him, prepared food for him, left his chair at the table as if he would sit there. Jonathan was terrified. He called the family doctor, Dr. Henderson who diagnosed Elizabeth with severe hysteria and recommended rest and isolation.

Isolation? Sarah’s voice carried a note of horror. In those days, it was a common treatment for women considered hysterical. Keep them in dark rooms away from stimuli. Force them to rest. Today, we know it was cruel and ineffective. But then it was accepted as medicine. Sarah shook her head thinking of how many women had been destroyed by these barbaric treatment.

 Jonathan didn’t want to do that to Elizabeth, but he was desperate. He converted the extra bedroom on the second floor into a sort of infirmary. Elizabeth spent most of her time there resting according to medical orders. But my grandfather said she didn’t rest. She lay there staring at the ceiling, whispering Thomas’s name repeatedly.

 How long was she like that? Weeks. And then in December, shortly before Christmas, Elizabeth disappeared. Sarah felt her stomach freeze. Disappeared? How? One morning, Jonathan woke up and she wasn’t in bed. He searched the entire house. Nothing. Her shoes were gone, as was her shawl. It was December. There was snow on the ground.

 Temperatures were below freezing. Jonathan woke Robert and Michael, and the three went out searching. They scoured the entire neighborhood, asked neighbors, went to the cemetery. Patricia paused, her eyes welling up. They found her 3 hours later in the cemetery lying on Thomas’s grave. She was unconscious, freezing. Jonathan carried her back home, called the doctor.

 She survived, but something had changed irreversibly. She had tried to dot dot dot die probably. Or maybe she just wanted to be close to Thomas to feel connected to him. We’ll never know for certain because Elizabeth never spoke again after that day. The silence between them was heavy as lead. She remained in a catatonic state for weeks. Jonathan hired a nurse to care for her at home, spending all the family savings.

 Robert and Michael did what they could, but the sadness in the house was suffocating. My grandfather said you could feel it when passing in front of the William house, a sensation of weight, of tragedy that permeated even the walls. Sarah wiped tears silently. And after, did Elizabeth recover? Patricia looked directly into Sarah’s eyes.

 She recovered enough to function, but was never the same person. And the family, well, the family eventually disintegrated in ways no one could have predicted. The rain intensified outside, drumming against the cafe windows. Patricia glanced at the clock on the wall. It was past 4 in the afternoon, but showed no hurry to end the conversation.

 Sarah realized this story was important to Patricia, too. A way of honoring memories and people long forgotten. When Elizabeth finally emerged from her catatonic state in January 1869, she had fundamentally changed. Patricia continued, her voice low and controlled. She spoke, ate, performed basic household tasks, but it was as if an essential part of her had died in that cemetery during that freezing December morning.

 She functioned mechanically, Sarah said, recognizing symptoms of what today would be diagnosed as severe depression with dissociative features. Exactly. My grandfather described her as a porcelain doll that someone had forgotten to bring to life. She prepared breakfast for the family, but never ate. She washed clothes, but left them wet in the basin.

She looked at Jonathan and the boys without really seeing them. Patricia stirred her tea cold for a long time now. Jonathan tried to keep the family together, but it was like holding sand between his fingers. He worked extra shifts at the factory to pay medical bills that had accumulated. Robert, at 16, now worked full-time at the hardware store, barely attending school anymore.

Michael withdrew further into himself, spending hours alone in his room. The photograph remained on the living room wall. Yes, Elizabeth still looked at it, but now differently. Not with a desperate longing of before, but with a blank stare, as if she were looking through it rather than at it. The house on Maple Street became known in the neighborhood as a place of sorrow.

Children avoided walking past it. Women whispered about poor Elizabeth William at church. Patricia took a breath, her voice trembling slightly. In the spring of 1869, Jonathan made a decision. He couldn’t continue like this. The family was drowning financially and emotionally. He had a cousin in Philadelphia who owned a small printing business and offered Jonathan a job.

Better pay, a fresh start, a chance to escape the memories that haunted every corner of Hartford. They left. Jonathan wanted to, but Elizabeth refused. She said she couldn’t leave Thomas. She visited his grave everyday, talked to him, brought flowers. The idea of moving to Philadelphia, of being hundreds of miles away from his burial site, was unbearable to her.

 Sarah felt her heartbreak. What did Jonathan do? He made an impossible choice. He took the job in Philadelphia and left Robert with him. Michael stayed in Hartford with Elizabeth, living with Elizabeth’s sister, Margaret, who had recently been widowed and had room in her house. He split the family. He had no choice. They were destitute, drowning in debt.

 The Philadelphia job was their salvation. Jonathan sent money back every month for Elizabeth and Michael’s care. He visited when he could, but the trips were expensive and time-consuming. Patricia’s voice grew softer, as if the weight of the story itself was pressing down on her. The years that followed were difficult for everyone.

 Jonathan and Robert built a new life in Philadelphia. Robert eventually married a local girl and had children of his own. Jonathan remarried in 1875 to a widow named Catherine who owned a boarding house. He never forgot Elizabeth or Thomas, but he chose survival over grief. Sarah absorbed this, understanding the impossible position Jonathan had been in.

 And Elizabeth and Michael in Hartford. Elizabeth lived with her sister Margaret until her death in 1883. She was 47 years old. The official cause was pneumonia, but my grandfather said she had simply given up living. She spent 15 years existing, not living. Margaret cared for her with devotion, but Elizabeth never truly came back from that December morning in the cemetery.

Did she ever see Jonathan again? A few times. He visited perhaps once or twice a year. The visits were awkward, painful. They had become strangers bound by shared tragedy. Michael would later tell people that watching his parents sit in the same room, unable to truly speak to each other was more painful than their separation.

 Patricia paused to wipe her eyes with a handkerchief. Michael grew up essentially without parents. Margaret did her best, but she had her own struggles. Michael finished school, became an apprentice to a carpenter, and eventually opened his own small furniture shop. He married at 25 to a woman named Anne, and they had two daughters.

 Did he stay in Hartford? His whole life. He visited Thomas’s grave every week without fail, even as an old man. He kept the wooden horse that had been in the photograph. It sat on his mantle until the day he died in 1924. He never spoke much about his childhood, about Thomas, about the photograph. His daughters knew only fragments of the story.

 Sarah felt tears on her cheeks again. And Robert in Philadelphia. Robert had a successful life in material terms. He became a manager at his uncle’s printing business, had four children, lived comfortably. But my grandfather, who knew Robert’s son, said Robert carried a sadness that never left him. He blamed himself for leaving Michael behind for not being there when his mother needed him.

 He visited Hartford only twice after leaving once for Elizabeth’s funeral in 1883 and once for Michael’s wedding in 1885. Did the brothers remain close? Patricia shook her head sadly. They exchanged letters occasionally, but the distance, geographical and emotional, was too great. They had been torn apart by tragedy and circumstances, and they never truly found their way back to each other.

 When Robert died in 1911, Michael traveled to Philadelphia for the funeral. It was the last time the William brothers were together, and even then it was over Robert’s casket. The cafe had emptied considerably. Only a few customers remained, and the barista was quietly cleaning tables. “What happened to the photograph?” Sarah asked. Patricia smiled faintly.

 “That’s where the story comes full circle,” Patricia leaned back in her chair, her expression distant yet peaceful, as if finally reaching the end of a long journey. When Elizabeth died in 1883, Margaret found the photograph still hanging in Elizabeth’s room. She had looked at it every single day for 15 years.

 Margaret couldn’t bear to throw it away. It felt like erasing Thomas’s existence entirely, so she kept it. Sarah listened intently, her historian’s mind already connecting the dots to how this photograph eventually ended up in the Hartford archive. Margaret passed it to Michael when she died in 1891. Michael hung it in his furniture shop in a small back office where he did his bookkeeping.

 His wife Anne thought it was morbid having a postmortem photograph displayed like that, but she understood. Thomas was Michael’s brother, and that photograph was the only image of them all together. Did Michael’s daughters know the truth about the photograph? Eventually, when they were old enough, Michael told them the story about Thomas, about the scarlet fever, about how their grandmother had loved Thomas so much that grief consumed her.

 The photograph became a family artifact, a reminder of love and loss intertwined. Patricia took a sip of her cold tea, grimacing slightly before continuing. Michael died in 1924. His daughter Ruth inherited the photograph. Ruth had always been fascinated by family history, and she preserved the photograph carefully. She researched, found Thomas’s grave, had it maintained.

When Ruth died in 1967, her son donated several family items to the Hartford Historical Society, including the photograph. He didn’t know its full significance to him. It was just an old family picture, and that’s how it ended up in the archive,” Sarah said softly. “Yes, it sat in storage for decades, just another artifact among thousands.

Until you found it yesterday,” they sat in silence for a moment. Sarah looked at the photograph on her tablet, seeing it now not just as a historical curiosity, but as a monument to love, grief, and the unbearable weight of loss. The wooden horse and the letter, Sarah said. What happened to them? Michael kept both until he died.

 They were buried with him at his request in the same cemetery as Thomas. He wanted to return them to his brother in a way. Ruth told people that her father’s last words were about Thomas, that he hoped they would play together again. The way they used to before the fever came, Sarah felt her throat tighten. “That’s beautiful and heartbreaking.

 That’s grief,” Patricia said simply. “It changes everyone it touches.” Jonathan chose survival and built a new life. Elizabeth chose memory and was consumed by it. Robert carried guilt. Michael carried love and sadness in equal measure. There’s no right way to grieve, Sarah. There’s only survival in whatever form it takes.

 Sarah nodded, understanding profoundly. Thank you for telling me the story, Patricia. I’ll make sure it’s properly documented that the William family isn’t forgotten. That’s all we can do for the dead, Patricia said, standing slowly, gathering her coat. Remember them, tell their stories. Make sure they mattered. They exchanged contact information.

 And Patricia left the cafe, disappearing into the rainy afternoon. Sarah remained seated looking at the photograph on her screen. Five people frozen in time. Two parents, three sons, one of them dead, all bound together by love and loss. She would write the story. She would document it thoroughly, contextualize it within the broader history of Victorian morning practices, examine the social and emotional landscape of 1868 Hartford.

 But more than that, she would honor the William family, Jonathan, Elizabeth, Robert, Michael, and especially Thomas, the seven-year-old boy whose death rippled through generations. Sarah saved her notes, packed her laptop, and walked out into the rain. Somewhere in Hartford, in the old Grove Street Cemetery, Thomas William rested beside his brother, Michael.