A man, disheveled and forlorn, sat at the base of a tree. It was late afternoon, and there weren't very many people around. A normal person would have assumed that everyone had gone home for dinner, but this man wasn't a normal person. He sat there quietly, back pressed into the bark of the tree, metal arm tucked slightly under him to hide it from prying eyes. An expression of nervous watchfulness covered his face, but, in fact, he was barely noticing his surroundings. With slow, even breaths that belied his tumultuous thoughts, he silently repeated the words to himself: Bucky… You've known me your whole life… Your name is James Buchanan Barnes… You're my friend. The words echoed hollowly in his thoughts, somewhat lacking the impact that they'd first had but still providing the only solace he could find. His stringy brown hair hung in his face, obscuring his vision as he never would have allowed it to before. Once he had been a warrior, mighty and vigilant, but now he was reduced to this shell of a man…no, that wasn't right. He knew the truth now: he had been only a puppet in the hands of wicked men—men who had used him to destroy everything he had once held dear…

He jolted as a memory from his previous life in Brooklyn flashed through his mind, vivid as the day, terrifying him senseless. People whose faces he vaguely recognized but whose names were lost in the murkiness of his broken mind—perhaps irrecoverably—appeared and disappeared as the memory raged on, obscuring all sense of the passage of time. His gaze hung, unfixed, on the ground in front of him as he lost himself in the memory.

The scene was just beginning to fade away, when suddenly a voice jerked him out of his hypnotic state.

"What's the matter with you?"

He glanced up to see a little girl of about 9 or 10 standing in front of him, holding a small bouquet of wildflowers in one hand. Grass stains covered her knees and a small frown wrinkled her brow. The soldier sat, frozen, unable to figure out how to react, his mouth slightly agape as he stared at the girl. She must have seen the terror in his eyes, because her expression softened and she seemed to say, It's alright. I'm here now.

Then she glanced down and saw his arm. "Cool prosthesis!" she declared as a giant grin split her face. "I'll bet you can do loads of stuff with that!" Without asking, she sat down next to him, a careful distance of about a foot between them, and stretched out a single finger to stroke his metal arm. He tensed, suppressing the urge to recoil from her outstretched hand, while he watched as she slowly drew her finger along its length, stopping just short of his hand.

"My brother had a prosthesis," she announced suddenly, withdrawing her hand and redirecting her gaze to the flowers in her hand. "But his was a leg, and not nearly so nice. Mom always said we were saving up to get him a better one, and then he'd have the best leg in all of Manhattan! He would have liked that, I know. It always made him sad, not being able to run as fast as the rest of us kids. Sometimes he'd cry." She glanced at the man, who hadn't taken his gaze from her since she'd arrived. "I'll bet you never cry," she chirped, eyes darting between his face and his arm. "But you know, it's okay to cry. Lots of people cry. Even my daddy cried once, when Benny was killed in the New York Invasion. I think everybody cried. It was pretty scary. And sad." While she rambled, she played with the flowers she had gathered, slicing the stems open with her fingernail and linking the flowers together. The motion was so soothing, that the man almost relaxed, until she mentioned the Invasion. Although he had no idea what she was actually referring to, the mere word was enough to make him panic. His breathing quickened as sweat began to gather on his forehead. The girl remained oblivious until he clenched his fist and the metallic sound made her look up. She stopped talking when she saw his panicked expression, and, immediately recognizing his distress, she reached over to comfort him.

"There, there, it's okay, it's alright," she cooed, patting and stroking his leg from where she now knelt at his side. "I know, sometimes it hurts, doesn't it?" Although that wasn't the problem, the man looked up to meet her gaze. How was this small person so…good? How did she know just what to say? Why hadn't she run away in fear like everyone else? The questions tumbled about in his mind as his eyes searched her freckled face for meaning.

Suddenly her eyes lit up as she had an idea. "I know! Do you want me to tell you a story? I used to tell Benny stories when he had to go to the hospital. It would hurt a lot, but I would tell him a story, and then he wouldn't notice so much. I could tell you a story, and maybe it would help!" She smiled wide, pleased with herself for being so smart. She waited for a response until, finally, the man gave a slight nod. "Great!" She plopped down next to him, closer than before, her warm body pressed into his side. The hot, sticky air stirred for moment, a breath of wind blowing wisps of hair out of her face as she gathered her flowers up again.

"Okay," she puffed, "this one's a story about two owls who go on an adventure." She leaned in and added in a whisper, "It's my favorite." Then louder again, she began to tell her tale, her voice rising and falling with the ebb and flow of the action, a gentle sound that soon quelled the chaos inside his head. For many long minutes he sat there, motionless and captivated, the perfect audience for the little storyteller. Then, all of a sudden, her story was cut off by the sound of a woman's voice calling in the distance.

"Grace? Grace! Gracie, where are you?"

"I'm coming, Mommy!" The little girl stood up, causing her flowers to spill from her lap onto the ground. She turned around and gave an apologetic smile, saying, "I'm sorry, I hafta go." She bent down and began gathering up the flowers.

"But…what about the rest of the story?" His voice, deep and raspy from disuse, surprised even himself. Had he really said that out loud? The girl's head jerked up in astonishment, then she grinned and threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, "You can talk! I knew it!" Taken aback, he sat frozen for a split second, before gingerly lifting his real arm to return the hug. She gave him a final squeeze and then pulled back. That's when she saw the bewildered and dismal expression on his face and remembered his question.

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll be back. I promise." And with that, she gently laid the flower crown she had been weaving on his head, before turning and scampering off into the trees.

James Buchanan Barnes lifted his fingers to caress the delicate petals, and for the first time in who knows how long, he smiled.