Abraham - Short Film

#nowplaying - Better Together - Hayden James - Running Touch

by Mitchell Royel - Ten-year-old Abraham Jenkins, anxious about starting a new school and being teased for his name, considers changing it to something "cooler." This prompts his father to take him on an intense journey through their family history, revealing the story of Abraham's great-great-grandfather—the first Abraham Jenkins—who overcame tremendous adversity as the son of former slaves to become an influential journalist in Philadelphia. Throughout one evening, father and son explore their family Bible, examine old photographs, read from ancestral journals, and ultimately share the gift of a silver pocket watch that once belonged to the elder Abraham. As night deepens, the conversation expands to explore the profound significance of names across cultures and history—how they connect us to our past, shape our identity, and carry a special kind of "magic" through generations. By morning, young Abraham embraces his name with newfound pride and understanding, no longer afraid of what awaits him at his new school but instead drawing strength from the legacy his name represents.

Abraham Jenkins sat on the edge of his bed, kicking his legs back and forth. His brand-new sneakers, still clean and bright white, flashed in the afternoon sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. Tomorrow was his first day at a new school, and his stomach felt like it was tied in a hundred knots.

“Dad?” Abraham called out, his voice cracking a little. “Can you come here?”

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and his father appeared in the doorway. Mr. Jenkins was tall with broad shoulders and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled. Today, though, his face was serious as he looked at his son.

“What’s up, buddy?” he asked, sitting down on the bed beside Abraham. The mattress sank under his weight.

Abraham picked at a loose thread on his jeans. “The kids at my old school… they used to call me Abe. And sometimes they’d say ‘Abe the babe’ to make fun of me.”

His father nodded slowly. “Kids can be mean sometimes.”

“I don’t want that to happen at my new school,” Abraham continued. “I was thinking maybe I could use a different name. Like… maybe just go by my middle name, James? Or something completely different? What about Max? Max sounds cool.”

His father was quiet for a long moment. Then he got up and walked to the bedroom door. “Come with me, son. I want to show you something.”

Abraham followed his father downstairs and into his study. It was a room Abraham wasn’t allowed to enter without permission. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and a large wooden desk sat near the window.

His father went to one of the bookshelves and pulled out an old, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, and the pages looked yellow with age.

“This is our family Bible,” his father explained, setting the heavy book on his desk and carefully opening it. “It’s been passed down through our family for generations.”

Abraham leaned closer. On the first few pages, he could see names written in different handwriting styles, along with dates.

“This is our family tree,” his father said, pointing to the names. “And do you see this name here?” His finger rested on a name near the top of the page.

“Abraham Jenkins,” Abraham read aloud. “Born 1889, died 1972.”

“That was your great-great-grandfather,” his father said. “You were named after him.”

Abraham looked up at his father, his eyes wide. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

His father nodded. “Names are powerful things, Abraham. They connect us to our past and shape our future. I think it’s time we talked about your name and why it’s so special.”

Mr. Jenkins closed the Bible and put it back on the shelf. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said. “This is going to be a long conversation.”

The sun was beginning to set as Abraham and his father walked through their new neighborhood. The houses were different from the ones in the city where they used to live. Here, the yards were bigger, and trees lined the streets.

“Do you know where the name Abraham comes from?” his father asked as they walked.

Abraham shook his head. “No.”

“It’s one of the oldest names in history,” his father explained. “It comes from the Hebrew name ‘Avraham.’ In the Bible, Abraham was a very important person. He was chosen by God to be the father of many nations.”

“Is that why you named me Abraham?”

His father smiled. “Partly. But there’s more to it than that. The name Abraham means ‘father of many’ or ‘father of a multitude.’ It represents leadership, responsibility, and faith.”

Abraham kicked a small stone on the sidewalk, watching it skitter ahead of them. “But I’m just a kid. I’m not a father of anything.”

“Not yet,” his father agreed. “But names aren’t just about who we are right now. They’re about who we might become.”

They turned a corner and came to a small park. A few children were playing on the swings while their parents watched from nearby benches. Abraham’s father led him to an empty bench, and they sat down.

“When your mother and I chose your name, we wanted something strong. Something with history and meaning,” his father continued. “Names have power, Abraham. They’re like magic spells that we cast on ourselves and each other.”

Abraham raised his eyebrows. “Magic spells? That sounds made up, Dad.”

His father laughed. “I’m serious! Think about it. When someone calls your name, what happens?”

Abraham shrugged. “I look at them?”

“Exactly! Your name has the power to make you turn your head. It has the power to get your attention, even from across a crowded room.” His father leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But it’s more than that. Your name becomes part of your identity. It shapes how you see yourself and how others see you.”

Abraham thought about this. “So you’re saying my name makes me who I am?”

“Not exactly. You are who you are, Abraham. But your name is like… a container that holds all the parts of you. And the shape of that container matters.”

Abraham wasn’t sure he understood, but he nodded anyway.

“Let me tell you about your great-great-grandfather,” his father said. “The first Abraham Jenkins.”

As the sky darkened and stars began to appear, Abraham listened to his father’s voice. The park had emptied of other people, but they remained on the bench, the story unfolding between them like a map to an unknown place.

“Abraham Jenkins was born in a small town in Georgia in 1889,” his father began. “His parents were former slaves who had gained their freedom after the Civil War. Times were very hard for Black families back then.”

Abraham nodded. He had learned about slavery and the Civil War in school.

“When Abraham was just a boy, not much older than you are now, there was a terrible incident in his town. A white mob attacked several Black-owned businesses and homes. Abraham’s father tried to protect their small farm, but he was badly beaten. He died from his injuries a few days later.”

Abraham felt a chill run through him, despite the warm evening air. “That’s awful,” he whispered.

His father nodded solemnly. “It was. Abraham was the oldest of five children. With his father gone, he had to become the man of the house at just twelve years old.”

“What did he do?” Abraham asked.

“He worked. He took odd jobs around town - shining shoes, delivering messages, anything he could find. And at night, he taught himself to read using an old Bible and newspapers he found discarded in trash bins.”

His father’s eyes seemed to look far away, as if he could see the past playing out before him. “Abraham had a dream. He wanted to become a lawyer so he could fight for justice for people like his father. But in those days, it was nearly impossible for a Black boy from the South to get that kind of education.”

“So what happened?” Abraham asked, completely caught up in the story now.

“When Abraham was seventeen, he made a decision. He left home and traveled north to Philadelphia. He had heard there were more opportunities there for Black people. He promised his mother he would send money back to help support his younger siblings.”

His father paused and looked at Abraham. “Do you know what the most valuable thing Abraham took with him on that journey?”

Abraham thought for a moment. “Money? Or maybe food?”

His father shook his head. “His name. He carried his name with him - Abraham. A name that reminded him of his responsibility to his family. A name that connected him to something greater than himself.”

Abraham considered this. He had never thought of his name as something he could “carry” with him.

“In Philadelphia, Abraham found work at a printing press. The owner, an older white man named Mr. Sullivan, noticed how quickly Abraham learned and how hard he worked. Eventually, Mr. Sullivan offered to help Abraham get an education.”

“Did he become a lawyer?” Abraham asked eagerly.

His father smiled. “Not exactly. But he did become one of the first Black journalists in Philadelphia. He wrote articles about the injustices faced by Black communities. His words helped change people’s minds and hearts.”

“Wow,” Abraham said softly. “And I’m named after him.”

“You are,” his father confirmed. “But there’s more to the story of your name. Much more.”

As night fell completely around them, Abraham realized he didn’t feel afraid of his new school anymore. Instead, he felt curious about the rest of his great-great-grandfather’s story, and about the magic of his own name.

They walked home under a canopy of stars, their shadows stretching long on the sidewalk under the streetlights. Abraham’s father continued the story as they walked.

“Your great-great-grandfather Abraham eventually married a woman named Clara. They had three children together, including your great-grandfather, William Jenkins.”

“What happened to Abraham after that?” Abraham asked.

“He continued his work as a journalist. During World War I, he tried to enlist in the army, but they wouldn’t take him because of his age and a bad knee from an old injury. Instead, he reported on the war and how it affected Black soldiers and their families.”

They reached their house and went inside. It was getting late, but Abraham didn’t feel tired. His mind was buzzing with questions and thoughts about his namesake.

His father went to the kitchen and filled two glasses with water. He handed one to Abraham and motioned for him to sit at the kitchen table.

“Abraham lived through some of the most important moments in American history,” his father continued. “He saw the Great Depression, World War II, and the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement. And through it all, he kept writing, kept using his voice to fight for what was right.”

Abraham took a sip of his water. “He sounds brave.”

“He was,” his father agreed. “But he was also afraid sometimes. Everyone gets afraid, Abraham. The brave part is continuing even when you’re scared.”

Abraham thought about starting at his new school tomorrow. It seemed like a small thing compared to what his great-great-grandfather had faced.

“There’s something else about names that I want you to understand,” his father said, his voice growing more serious. “Throughout history, people have tried to take away other people’s names. Slave owners gave new names to the people they enslaved, trying to erase their history and identity. Immigrants were often forced to change their names to sound more ‘American.’ Even today, people sometimes have their names mispronounced or changed because others find them too difficult or too different.”

Abraham frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” his father agreed. “Your name is your birthright. It’s a gift from your parents and your ancestors. When someone tries to take that away or change it without your permission, they’re trying to take away a piece of who you are.”

Abraham thought about the kids at his old school calling him “Abe the babe.” It had made him feel small and embarrassed. But now, knowing the history behind his name, it seemed wrong to let them take that away from him.

“Dad,” he said slowly, “I think I want to keep using my name. My whole name. Abraham.”

His father smiled, a mix of pride and something deeper in his eyes. “I’m glad to hear that, son. But our conversation about your name isn’t finished yet. There’s still more to tell.”

After they finished their water, Abraham’s father led him back to his study. This time, he went to a different shelf and pulled down a wooden box. It was carved with intricate patterns that Abraham couldn’t quite make out in the dim light.

“This box belonged to your great-great-grandfather,” his father explained, setting it on the desk. “It was passed down to me by my father, and one day it will be yours.”

Carefully, he opened the lid. Inside were various objects: old photographs, letters yellowed with age, a pocket watch, and what looked like a small leather journal.

His father picked up one of the photographs and handed it to Abraham. It showed a serious-looking man in a suit, standing next to a woman in a long dress. They weren’t smiling - people rarely smiled in old photographs - but there was a dignity in their posture, a strength in their eyes.

“This is Abraham and Clara Jenkins,” his father said quietly. “Your great-great-grandparents.”

Abraham stared at the photograph, studying the face of the man he was named after. He had a strong jaw and intelligent eyes. Abraham tried to find similarities between himself and this ancestor, but it was hard to tell from the faded image.

“He looks serious,” Abraham observed.

His father nodded. “Life was serious for him. But he also had joy. Clara once wrote that Abraham had the most wonderful laugh - like rolling thunder, she said.”

Abraham smiled at that. He liked the idea of his serious-looking ancestor having a big, thunderous laugh.

His father picked up the small leather journal next. “This is perhaps the most valuable thing in this box,” he said. “It’s Abraham’s journal from 1925 to 1930. Those were important years in his life.”

He carefully opened the journal and turned a few pages, then found what he was looking for. “Listen to this,” he said, and began to read:

“‘Today I held my first grandson in my arms. William and his wife have named him Edward, after her father. A good, strong name. It made me think about names and their power. My own name has been both a burden and a blessing throughout my life. A burden because it set expectations upon me that were sometimes too heavy to bear. A blessing because it connected me to a story larger than myself, a story of faith and perseverance.’”

His father looked up from the journal. “Your great-great-grandfather understood something important about names. They’re not just labels. They’re stories.”

Abraham nodded slowly, beginning to understand. “So my name is a story?”

“Yes,” his father said. “It’s many stories, actually. It’s the story of Abraham from the Bible, who followed his faith into the unknown. It’s the story of your great-great-grandfather, who overcame tremendous obstacles to create a better life for his family. And it’s your story too - the one you’re writing every day with your choices and actions.”

Abraham felt something stirring inside him, a mixture of pride and responsibility. “That’s a lot to live up to,” he said quietly.

His father closed the journal and placed it back in the box. “It is. But remember, you don’t have to be exactly like anyone who came before you. You get to write your own chapter in this ongoing story.”

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed ten times. Abraham knew it was well past his bedtime, especially with school starting tomorrow, but his father showed no signs of ending their conversation.

“Come on,” his father said, closing the wooden box and returning it to its shelf. “Let’s go to the backyard.”

Abraham followed him through the kitchen and out the back door. Their new backyard was bigger than the one at their old house. A tall oak tree stood in one corner, its branches spreading wide against the night sky.

His father walked to the center of the yard and looked up at the stars. Abraham stood beside him, following his gaze upward. The night was clear, and thousands of stars sparkled above them.

“Names have been important to people since the beginning of time,” his father said, his voice quiet but intense. “The ancient Egyptians believed that a person’s name was essential to their soul. They thought that as long as a person’s name was spoken, they would continue to exist in the afterlife.”

Abraham looked at the stars, trying to imagine ancient Egyptians looking at these same stars thousands of years ago.

“Many cultures have traditions around naming,” his father continued. “In some African traditions, children are given names that reflect the circumstances of their birth or the hopes their parents have for them. In Jewish tradition, children are often named after deceased relatives, keeping their memory alive.”

“What about our family?” Abraham asked. “Do we have traditions about names?”

His father nodded. “We do. In our family, names are chosen with great care. They’re meant to honor those who came before us and to give strength to those who bear them.”

He placed a hand on Abraham’s shoulder. “When your mother and I found out we were going to have you, we spent months thinking about what to name you. We wanted something meaningful, something that would connect you to your heritage but also give you room to become your own person.”

Abraham thought about this. “And you chose Abraham.”

“We did. We chose it because of your great-great-grandfather, yes. But also because of what the name itself means. ‘Father of many.’ It’s a name about leadership, about responsibility to others. It’s a name that looks to the future.”

Abraham kicked at the grass beneath his feet. “But what if I don’t want to be a leader? What if I just want to be… normal?”

His father squeezed his shoulder gently. “Your name doesn’t dictate your future, Abraham. It’s not a prison. It’s more like… a foundation. You can build whatever you want upon it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the night air cool around them.

“Let me tell you something about your great-great-grandfather that few people know,” his father said finally. “Something that isn’t written in any history book.”

Abraham looked up, curious.

“Abraham Jenkins was afraid of thunderstorms,” his father said. “Deathly afraid. Whenever a storm would come, he would hide in the basement of his house, shaking with fear.”

Abraham was surprised. This didn’t fit with the image he had formed of his brave, dignified ancestor. “Really?”

His father nodded. “Really. Clara wrote about it in her diary. But here’s the interesting part - despite this fear, Abraham would force himself to go out during storms if someone needed help. Once, during a terrible thunderstorm, he rescued a neighbor’s child who had gotten lost. The thunder was so loud it shook the windows, but Abraham went out anyway.”

“That’s what real courage is,” his father continued. “Not the absence of fear, but action in spite of it. Your great-great-grandfather understood that his name, and the legacy it represented, was more important than his personal fears.”

Abraham thought about this. He had always assumed that brave people didn’t feel afraid. The idea that courage meant acting despite fear was new to him.

“Tomorrow, when you go to your new school, you might feel afraid,” his father said. “And that’s okay. Fear is natural. But remember who you are and where you come from. Remember the story of your name.”

Abraham nodded, feeling a new resolve building inside him. “I will.”

They went back inside, and his father made them each a cup of hot chocolate, even though it was late. They sat at the kitchen table, warming their hands on their mugs.

“There’s something else about names that I want you to understand,” his father said after taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “Names have power not just because of their history or meaning, but because of how we use them.”

Abraham blew on his hot chocolate to cool it. “What do you mean?”

“When you call someone by name, you’re acknowledging their existence, their humanity. It’s a sign of respect.” His father’s eyes grew distant, as if remembering something. “During the darkest times in our history, people tried to strip others of their names, to reduce them to numbers or generic labels. This happened during slavery, during the Holocaust, in Japanese internment camps, and in many other terrible chapters of human history.”

Abraham felt a chill despite the warm drink in his hands.

“By using someone’s correct name, pronouncing it properly, and respecting what they wish to be called, you honor their dignity as a person,” his father continued. “This is something your great-great-grandfather wrote about extensively in his articles. He believed that names were sacred.”

Abraham thought about this. He had never considered how important it might be to say someone’s name correctly.

“At your new school, you’ll probably meet kids with names from different cultures and traditions,” his father said. “Some of those names might be unfamiliar to you, maybe difficult to pronounce at first. But making the effort to learn and use those names correctly is a way of showing respect.”

Abraham nodded. “I’ll try to do that.”

“Good,” his father said with a smile. “And remember, if someone calls you ‘Abe’ and you don’t like it, it’s okay to correct them. You can politely say, ‘I prefer Abraham.’ Most people will respect that.”

Abraham took a drink of his hot chocolate, which had cooled enough to sip. “Dad?” he asked after a moment. “Do you think Great-Great-Grandpa Abraham would be proud of me?”

His father looked at him thoughtfully. “I think he would be proud of who you are becoming. And I think he would be honored that you carry his name forward.”

Abraham smiled at that. For the first time, he felt a connection to this ancestor he had never met, a thread stretching back through time, connecting them through the shared magic of their name.

As they finished their hot chocolate, Abraham’s father checked his watch. “It’s getting very late,” he said. “You should get to bed soon. Big day tomorrow.”

But Abraham had one more question. “Dad, why are we talking about all this tonight? Why didn’t you tell me about Great-Great-Grandpa Abraham before?”

His father was quiet for a moment. “I’ve been waiting for the right time,” he finally said. “Names and their stories are powerful. They come with responsibility. I wanted to wait until you were ready to understand that.”

He got up and rinsed his empty mug in the sink. “And to be honest, I needed to be ready too. The story of your name is also the story of our family, of where we come from and what we’ve overcome. These aren’t always easy stories to tell.”

Abraham understood. His father wasn’t just teaching him about his name tonight; he was passing down their family’s history, their legacy.

“There’s one more thing I want to show you before you go to bed,” his father said. “Come with me.”

Abraham followed his father upstairs to the master bedroom. His father went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. From it, he removed a small wooden box, similar to the one in his study but smaller.

“This is for you,” he said, handing the box to Abraham. “I’ve been saving it for this conversation.”

Abraham took the box, feeling its weight in his hands. It was made of dark wood, polished smooth, with his name - ABRAHAM - carved into the top in elegant letters.

“Open it,” his father urged.

Abraham carefully lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a silver pocket watch. It looked old but well-maintained, its surface gleaming in the bedroom light.

“This watch belonged to your great-great-grandfather,” his father explained. “It was given to him by the owner of the newspaper where he worked, in recognition of twenty-five years of service. It passed to my grandfather, then to my father, and then to me. Now it’s yours.”

Abraham gently lifted the watch from the box. It was heavier than he expected. On the back was an engraving: “To Abraham Jenkins, whose words have made a difference. 1939.”

“It still works,” his father said. “I had it serviced last month.”

Abraham carefully opened the watch. The face was white with black Roman numerals, and the second hand moved with a steady tick-tick-tick.

“This watch has witnessed history,” his father said softly. “It was in your great-great-grandfather’s pocket during the Great Depression, World War II, and the early days of the Civil Rights Movement. Now it will witness your history.”

Abraham felt the weight of the watch in his hand, and with it, the weight of his name and all it represented. But instead of feeling burdened, he felt strengthened, connected to something larger than himself.

“Thank you, Dad,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

His father pulled him into a tight hug. “Wear it tomorrow,” he said. “Not to school - it’s too valuable for that. But wear it in the morning, while you get ready. Let it remind you of who you are and where you come from.”

Abraham nodded against his father’s chest, too overwhelmed to speak.

When they pulled apart, his father looked him in the eyes. “Now it’s time for bed. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, Abraham Jenkins.”

In his bedroom, Abraham placed the wooden box with the pocket watch on his nightstand. He changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth, his mind still swirling with all he had learned about his name and his family history.

As he climbed into bed, he thought about his great-great-grandfather, the first Abraham Jenkins. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for him, leaving home at seventeen, traveling north to an unfamiliar city, carrying nothing but determination and a name that connected him to his past.

Abraham reached over and opened the box again, taking out the pocket watch. In the dim light of his bedside lamp, he could make out his reflection in its polished surface - a ten-year-old boy with dark eyes and a serious expression, not unlike the man in the photograph he had seen earlier.

“My name is Abraham Jenkins,” he whispered to himself, testing how it felt to say his full name with new understanding. It felt right. It felt like his.

He carefully returned the watch to its box and turned off his lamp. In the darkness, he could hear the faint tick-tick-tick of the watch, like a heartbeat. It was comforting somehow, as if his ancestor was keeping him company on the night before his first day at a new school.

Abraham closed his eyes, no longer worried about what the kids at his new school might think of his name. He knew now that his name was more than just a word people called him. It was a story, a legacy, a kind of magic that connected him to those who came before and those who would come after.

As he drifted toward sleep, Abraham thought he could almost hear his great-great-grandfather’s thunderous laugh, rolling across the years between them, a sound of joy and strength and perseverance.

“My name is Abraham Jenkins,” he whispered again, just before sleep claimed him. And for the first time, he felt the full weight and wonder of those words, the magic they contained, and the future they promised.

The next morning, Abraham woke up early. Sunlight streamed through his window, casting patterns on his bedroom floor. For a moment, he lay still, remembering the long conversation with his father the night before, the story of his name, and the pocket watch that now sat in its wooden box on his nightstand.

He got out of bed and opened the box, carefully removing the silver watch. Just as his father had suggested, he carried it with him as he got ready for school, its weight in his pocket a reminder of who he was and where he came from.

Downstairs, his father was making breakfast. The kitchen smelled of bacon and coffee. Abraham sat at the table, the pocket watch now resting beside his plate.

“Sleep well?” his father asked, placing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him.

Abraham nodded. “I had a dream about Great-Great-Grandpa Abraham,” he said. “He was writing at a desk, and I was watching him. He couldn’t see me, but I could see him.”

His father sat down across from him with his own plate. “What was he writing?”

Abraham shrugged. “I couldn’t read it. But he looked… determined. Like what he was writing was really important.”

His father smiled. “I’m sure it was. Writing was how he fought for what he believed in.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Then Abraham asked, “Dad, do you think names really have magic? Like real magic?”

His father considered the question. “Not magic like in fairy tales or fantasy books,” he said finally. “But a different kind of magic. The kind that exists in connections between people, in stories passed down through generations, in words that have power because we give them power.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “Your name connects you to people you’ve never met and to places you’ve never been. It carries history and meaning that was established long before you were born. And it will continue to exist long after we’re gone. If that’s not a kind of magic, I don’t know what is.”

Abraham thought about this as he finished his breakfast. He looked at the pocket watch beside his plate, at the name carved into the wooden box it had come in. His name. A name with history and meaning and, yes, maybe even a kind of magic.

After breakfast, he went upstairs to get dressed for school. He chose his favorite blue shirt and a pair of jeans. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he practiced introducing himself.

“Hi, I’m Abraham,” he said to his reflection. “Abraham Jenkins.”

It sounded good. Strong. Like the name of someone who knew who he was and where he came from.

He carefully returned the pocket watch to its box and placed it on his dresser. He wouldn’t take it to school, but he would carry its meaning with him.

Downstairs, his father was waiting by the front door with Abraham’s backpack. “Ready?” he asked.

Abraham took a deep breath and nodded. “Ready.”

As they walked to the car, Abraham felt different than he had yesterday. The knots in his stomach were gone, replaced by a sense of calm determination. He was still nervous about starting a new school, meeting new teachers and classmates. But now he had something he hadn’t had before - a deeper understanding of his name and the strength it could give him.

“Dad?” he said as they got into the car.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for telling me about Great-Great-Grandpa Abraham. And about names and their magic.”

His father smiled as he started the car. “You’re welcome, son. Remember, you’re part of a long line of Abraham Jenkinses. But you’re also the first and only you. Your chapter in this story is just beginning.”

Abraham nodded, feeling ready to write that chapter. As the car pulled away from their house, he silently repeated his full name to himself once more.

Abraham Jenkins.

A name with history. A name with meaning. A name with magic.

His name.

THE END