Good God. Sorry for the long gap between chapters guys! This chapter doesn't have much of a point to be honest; it's a self-indulgent desire for someone to just be nice to Bucky after everything that happened at the end of CA:TWS. Hopefully you guys like it! :D


"You're bleeding," a voice tells him simply and it's enough to pull him out of his dark, silent reverie. He blinks and looks up, his eyes coming to rest on a tiny woman standing in front of him. She looks like she's at least eighty and the blue, domed umbrella she's holding nearly envelopes her completely. She's standing on the sidewalk, looking at him calmly like coming home to find and ragged, bleeding man on her doorstep is completely normal.

The downpour had been sudden and unexpected and he wasn't sure how he ended up huddled on the doorstep of an apartment building but it happened. He had only been planning to stay for a few minutes, just until the rain lightened up, but the slate grey sky makes it clear the storm isn't planning on letting up anytime soon. His clothes are soaked, his hair is dripping, and all together everything is just miserable.

It's been three weeks since his fight with the Captain and the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. He couldn't stay in D.C., not with the fallout of what the media had lovingly begun calling Hydra-Gate. There was too great a chance of being recognized or having one of his former handlers swoop in and take him again. So he ran, away from Washington, away from Hydra, and away from Steve.

He couldn't run far though; the downside of not knowing who you were meant no ID and no money. He ended up in Alexandria, a stone's throw distance from D.C., but it was as far as he could get for the time being. He had no goal, no destination in mind; he just bounced around the city aimlessly like a shadow being carried by the wind. He kept a low profile and stayed off the grid, sleeping in abandoned buildings and finding clothes in donation boxes. The city was much smaller than Washington but still big enough for him to disappear in. It was as good a place as any to start trying to reclaiming himself too.

He found that the longer he was away from the cryochamber and Hydra's brainwashing the more he started to remember. The memories were unpredictable and came in waves, washing over him and jerking his feet out from under him like a riptide. He'd remember snapshots of a life but the memories are grainy and unfocused, the images in his mind blurring and cutting out like film running across a crooked projector. The memories weren't whole and continuous either; they'd jump and skip over years and decades at a time, a memory from the 60s bleeds into one from the 90s and it would be difficult to keep track. There are still more gaps than pieces in his mind so his life resembles more of a distorted, half-finished jigsaw puzzle than anything else.

The night before had been bad but then most nights usually are. Last night was worse though because threat of the oncoming storm made everything damp and cold and he doesn't handle cold well. Not anymore. The cold reminds him of the cryochamber and the deep, aching freeze that accompanied it. It reminds him of snow drenched valleys, twisted metal, and icy rocks. It reminds him of a death he only remembers in his nightmares.

He woke up last night screaming and reaching out for something that wasn't there, something so close and yet so far away. A hand, maybe. A face. A life he doesn't remember. The building was empty, a foreclosed office space that would be recycled and turned into something else by the end of the month. His screams bounced off brick walls and dusty windows and found their way back to him only after they'd echoed through the building for a few seconds.

He was trembling and shivering all over, both from the cold and from the nightmare. He doesn't remember much of it, only that it was dark and splashed with blood. Most of his dreams are. Sometimes he'll see a face, a man with dark hair and a mustache or a war hero in red, white, and blue. The dreams always leave him shaken and unsteady, head throbbing and thoughts racing. He knows, deep down, that these people are important, that he knows them somehow, but he can't remember why.

When he woke up the night before, scream dying in his throat and hand reaching out for nothing, he caught sight of mechanical joints and metal plating in the dim light. His left hand was raised in the air, the metal arm outstretched, and suddenly he was furious. He wasn't sure at what or who but he took it out on the arm.

The metal limb served as a constant reminder of what he had become, what he had been turned into. It represented every terrible thing he had done, every kill, every mission, every death. He reached up with his other hand and tore at the jagged seam where flesh met metal. It's fused to his skin, connected to his body like he had been born with it, and he hates it even more. He pulled at the metal, tearing at his own skin in an attempt to remove it. It didn't work, the metal limb remained firmly attached to his shoulder in spite of his best efforts. The only thing he accomplished was shredded skin and broken fingernails.

It bled for a long time after that; the scratches were deep and wide and dark streams of crimson trickling down over smooth, gleaming metal and snaked into the joints. He didn't care, he let it bleed. It hurt but he deserved it. The arm was a weapon and needed to be destroyed and if he couldn't pull it off he could at least make sure it hurt like hell to move it.

He didn't sleep for the rest of the night, too weary from the nightmare and too unsettled to forget it. His shoulder hurt, bleeding and raw, but he ignored it. He sat there with his back pressed against the wall until the first gloomy light of morning broke across the city. He couldn't stay here, he knew that, so he stood up, gathered the few belongings he had, and left the building behind.

That had been hours ago and he somehow found himself huddled on the doorstep of this woman's apartment. It was a surprising turn of events to say the least. What's even more surprising, however, is that the woman doesn't appear bothered by his appearance, only slightly curious about his condition.

He glances at his shoulder and realizes the blood has soaked through his sleeve and is now dying the fabric a dark reddish-pink. His other hand comes up to cover it slightly and there's a throb of pain when he touches it. He clenches his teeth against it and stands slowly.

"Sorry," he tells her quietly, stepping off the porch and back out into the rain. "I'm sorry, I didn't know-"

The lady looks at him in mild confusion and looks back out at the rain-soaked street. "Where do you think you're going?"

It's his turn to be confused and he frowns slightly. He points in a vague direction, nowhere in particular, and opens his mouth to say that he's going that way but the lady cuts him off before he can speak.

"You really think I'm gonna kick you out in weather like this?" The question seems rhetorical, one she already knows the answer to but asks anyway. She lets out a soft, disbelieving scoff and shakes her head. "This weather is supposed to last the rest of the day and clear into the night, honey. I'm not about to kick you out in it."

She brushes past him up onto the porch and shakes her umbrella a little over the edge. Satisfied that most of the water is off, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a set of keys, jiggling one into the lock and pushing the door open. She steps inside and looks back at him over her shoulder. "Come on," she says, nodding inside the building. "Come on in."

He doesn't move. This isn't a good idea; it's a nice gesture, really, but he's dangerous and he doesn't trust himself around people yet. He can't stand the idea of losing control and accidentally hurting someone again and has been keeping his distance from everyone he comes in contact with and now this little old lady is literally inviting him into her home and everything about it screams bad flipside of this argument is that he doesn't know this woman at all, has never met her before in his life. He doesn't know what her motives are, what angle she's going for, what-

"Don't make me drag you," the old woman tells him with just a hint of exasperation. She's not threatening him (she probably weighs 90lbs soaking wet and he knows he could easily just run away and she would never catch him) but she's not taking no for an answer either. It's strange and it goes against everything he's ever done but he finds himself taking a slow, hesitant step back onto the porch and following her through the open door.

Once she's sure he's inside, the woman pushes the door closed and props her still dripping umbrella against the door. "Streets are gonna flood if this rain keeps up," she mutters more to herself than him before turning and gesturing down the hall. "Come on, this way."

He follows her wordlessly into the apartment, glancing at framed photographs and artwork lining the walls. It's a small apartment, single bedroom with most of the other rooms visible from the main hallway. However, in spite of its diminutive size it feels cozy and warm, a home instead of just a building. It's been a long time since he's been anywhere that felt like home; he barely even remembers what it was like.

"Sorry for the mess," the woman calls back from where she'd ended up in the kitchen. He looks around, noting the absence of the aforementioned mess. She still seems bothered by it though and continues speaking. "Wasn't expecting company tonight. Thought it was just gonna be me and the rain."

She pokes her head around the corner, giving him a once over from where he's standing motionless in the hall. "I have some clothes you can borrow if you want. They belonged to my husband and I just haven't gotten around to getting rid of them yet. Need something to remember him by, you know?"

There's a quiet clunk that sounds like a pot being shuffled onto the stove and the woman reappears in the doorway again. "If you don't want the clothes I can always throw yours in the dryer. Better than keeping them on wet." She watches him again, almost like she's expecting an answer but not receiving it. "Well, are you gonna come in here or not?" she asks finally, gesturing toward the kitchen with one hand.

He doesn't know what to say in response so he just takes a few more shuffling steps through the hallway and into the kitchen. The kitchen, like the rest of the apartment, is small but functional and painted a soft grey like spun wool. There's a small dining room table pushed up against one wall, a large bookshelf filled with cook books, and a few framed vintage labels along the walls. It's warm and comfortable and he finds himself sinking into one of the dining room chairs slowly.

Satisfied with the progress, the woman sheds her rain jacket and hangs it on a hook next to the refrigerator. She's very petite, topping out just under five feet, and she looks like a strong breeze could carry her away. Despite her age, though, she moves around the room easily, familiar and comfortable with the space allotted. Her hair is bright white, a stark contrast to the darkness of her skin, and she brushes away a wayward drip of water that threatens to slide down her forehead. She turns to look at him again and he feels her gaze down to his core.

"Honey, you look like you've had a rough couple of days," she remarks casually in what is probably the most incredible understatement of the century. He's filthy, he knows he is, and his hair is longer than it's ever been, dirty and dripping on her linoleum floor. He can feel the scratch and scruff of a beard and between the rain-soaked, bloody clothes and his haggard appearance, this sweet old woman should never have opened her door to him. But she did, for some strange reason, and he doesn't know what to say.

"Why are you doing this?" he hears himself ask quietly, hunching slightly in the chair like a chastised child.

"Pardon?" she asks, genuinely confused by the question.

"Helping me," he elaborates with a helpless little shrug. "You don't know me; I could be dangerous. Why are you helping me?" She says nothing and simply stares at him. It makes him shift uncomfortably. "Listen...I don't have any way to pay you-"

"Ah, stop," she says, holding up a hand in the universal sign of stop, go no further. "None of that. I didn't pull you in outta the rain for a reward or payment."

He blinks in confusion again. "Then why?"

The woman laughs then, startled and deep. She looks at him in surprise and shakes her head slowly. "Honey, you do realize that sometimes people do things for others without expecting anything in return, right?"

At his blank look and lack of response, she sighs and shakes her head again. The smile she offers is gentle and benign. "I can tell when someone needs a warm meal and a safe place; I've been working in shelters and churches long enough to see it. You showed up on my doorstep, soaking wet and looking like a lost puppy and what kind of woman would I be if I tossed you out?"

She waves one hand at him like the question isn't worth elaborating on any further. "I've been doing this a long time, baby; and if I made a mistake by letting you in here then it's my fault."

"Now," she says, nodding toward the hall. "I'm going to start dinner and you're going to take a shower and get out of those wet clothes; we don't need you catching pneumonia because you're too stubborn to get dry. The bathroom's the second door on the right, towels are under the sink. Leave your clothes in the hamper and I'll put them in the dryer for you when you get out."

He glances down the hall toward the indicated door and hesitates. No one has ever been this kind to him, at least not that he remembers. His handlers and employers never did anything for him without expecting something in return and usually it involved blood. He has the scars and previously broken bones as souvenirs of their "kindness" and nothing was ever gained without sacrificing something in return. He's still waiting for the other shoe to drop, the nail in the coffin.

"I do want one thing from you," the woman says as he starts to stand up.

He nearly flinches at the request. "What is it?"

"Your name."

He frowns, shoulders slumping just slightly. It hadn't been what he was expecting but it was no less difficult. He didn't know his name, not for certain at least. The Captain had called him 'Bucky' but he felt no connection with that name, not right now. The plaques he'd seen at the museum, the ones with his face and his eyes staring back at him, had been labeled 'James.' That seems marginally better, closer to a real name rather than an endeared nickname from a friend he doesn't remember.

"James," he says finally, the name feeling hollow yet whole at the same time.

The woman smiles at him, warm and gentle. "James," she says and for some reason the name means more coming from her. "Just like my son. Well James, you can call me Anna."

He tries for a smile then, an unfamiliar, foreign expression. He wonders if he's doing it right. "It's nice to meet you, Anna."

She smiles again in return. "It's nice to meet you too, James." She nods in the direction of the hallway again. "Go on, now. Get cleaned up and meet me back in here; I'll take care of your clothes for you when you're done."

He nods and stands slowly, walking into the hallway and finding the bathroom. The light flickers on from a switch on the wall and the room is cast in its fluorescent glow. The walls are a soft beige and there's a framed picture of a sailboat on the wall. The room is small and a little cramped but he doesn't complain; the cryochamber had been cramped and compared to that this room feels like a palace.

He peels his wet clothes off carefully and drops them in the sink, wincing a little when the movement tugs at the torn skin on his left shoulder. The flesh is shredded and raw, deep scratches and gouges around the metal that have partially scabbed over but not entirely. There are still watery rivulets that seep from the wounds and trail down his metal arm, catching in between plates and joints. The star is gone, he ground it off with a piece of glass two days after the battle above the Potomac. It was just one more reminder, one more thing he could never forget. It was easier to get rid of than the arm, though, and he destroyed it with pleasure.

The shower sputters a little when he turns it on but it levels itself out after a few seconds. He steps into the stall carefully and stands beneath the spray for approximately two full minutes, just long enough to get clean, before turning it off again. He doesn't want to take advantage of Anna's kindness more than he already has and using all of her hot water is unacceptable.

He shuts the shower off and stands there dripping and silent for another minute or so. Everything about this feels so strange, so domestic. He honestly can't remember the last time he had been invited into someone's home, shown compassion, treated like a human instead of a weapon. He doesn't deserve it, he's not worth the kindness. He's done terrible, unspeakable things, and anyone who thinks he's less than a monster is out of their mind.

He exhales slowly in the steam and steps out of the shower to find a small pile of folded clothes on the countertop near the sink. His wet clothes are gone, scooped up and replaced with dry spares. He frowns a little, realizing he never heard the door open and wondering how his reflexes had become so rusty in just a few short weeks. He stares at the clothes for a few seconds before picking them up and putting them on. The pants fit well enough but the shirt is too tight and he can't pull it all the way on without ripping it. Just as well probably; he doesn't want to get blood on Anna's husband's shirt either.

There's a small plastic comb on the counter as well and he picks it up slowly. The reflection that stares back at him in the mirror is a man he's never seen before, haggard and gaunt with dark bags under his eyes. This man is shell, a husk of someone who had once been human. He doesn't know who or what he is anymore but he seriously doubts it's in any way similar to the man he sees in the mirror.

He stares at his reflection for a second or so more before deciding he should at least attempt to make himself look presentable. Anna had been kind to him; she had been sweet and benign and gentle. He owes her the effort of a marginally clean appearance. He passes the comb through his hair carefully, untangling knots that had been there for weeks and letting his dark, damp hair fall into his face. It hangs like a black, dripping curtain over his eyes and he struggles with it for another moment or two to get it into some kind of style.

Satisfied with the progress, he sets the comb back on the counter and carefully folds Anna's husband's shirt back into a neat pattern. He'll have to wait until his own clothes come out of the dryer so for the moment he's left without a shirt. Normally he wouldn't care but he does now; Anna will see it and he doesn't want to scare her with the appearance of his metal limb. He thinks maybe he can maneuver it past her with a little effort and if that's what it takes to keep from alarming her then he's more than happy to comply.

Anna is still in the kitchen when he comes out, her back to him while she works on something at the stove. He doesn't want her to see his arm, he wants to keep it as far away from her as possible. The arm is ugly and brutal, a weapon fused to his body, and he doesn't want it to be anywhere near her if he can help it.

He doesn't move fast enough though because she turns, sees it, and frowns. It's not a nervous frown though, not even a frightened one; it's a frown of concern. "You're still bleeding," she tells him gently, turning away from the stove and digging in the cabinet beneath the sink. She pulls out a small plastic box and sets it on the counter beside the stove, plucking a few bandages from inside.

"Come sit down," she says, gesturing toward the nearest chair. It's not a request so much as a polite order. He's used to orders so he complies wordlessly and drops into the chair.

For a moment, Anna doesn't touch him, she just looks at the arm carefully. Her dark eyes are unreadable but the frown that tugs at her lips isn't. Once again, she doesn't appear shocked or appalled, just concerned. She reaches out carefully and touches one of the top plates where the arm connects to his shoulder. He fights the urge to flinch; not from pain or discomfort but because he doesn't want her so close to something so deadly. "War wound?" she asks finally, grabbing a bottle of peroxide and a rag.

"Something like that," he answers back, a muscle in his jaw tightening just slightly when she begins carefully dabbing at some of the deeper gouges near the metal seam. "How did you know?"

"My grandson got injured over in Afghanistan," she tells him as she unrolls a thin bandage and tapes it over one of the shallower cuts. "He lost his leg below the knee. Took him a long time to get used to the prosthetic; he used to scratch at it too sometimes when he first got it."

She works silently for a few seconds, cleaning away blood and bandaging the wounds. He sits stock still and rigid, concentrating on not moving. It seems odd that the tenderest gestures can hurt more than the wounds themselves. Her small hands are careful and gentle and it's that same gentleness that makes his breath hitch. No one had ever been gentle with him before.

"When did you serve?" she asks after another moment or so of silence, dabbing away the last of the blood and covering the deeper gouges with a thick piece of gauze.

"1945," he answers automatically, the words already out before he can stop them. He frowns and snaps his mouth shut, irritated at the loss of control.

Anna appears surprised; she stops for a second, blinks a few times, and then laughs brightly. "Well, honey, if you served in 1945 then you look really good for your age. My husband served in Korea and he's been gone for three years now; World War II was even before our time."

She smiles a little and shakes her head, taping the last of the bandages to his shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," she says quietly, her eyes flickering over his expression. "Robert never liked to talk about it and Marcus, my grandson, he doesn't like to talk about it either."

She puts the tape and bandages back in the plastic box and steps away to put it back under the sink. "I've raised a whole household of soldiers in my days," she says, straightening slowly and turning back toward the stove. "I know that war is a tough subject, one that most people don't like to discuss."

He offers a small smile in response, grateful for the reprieve. He doesn't know what he would have told her if she had pressed for an answer; he barely remembers anything from the war, his life before it. His responses would have likely raised more questions than it answered.

He rolls his shoulder slightly, wincing just a little at the dull ache that accompanies the movement. It still hurts but he can handle that; he's definitely had worse. At least it's not bleeding anymore. He looks over to where Anna is ladling something from the pot on the stove into a bowl on the counter. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Anna gives him that same benign smile and shakes her head. "You can help me by staying put and not pulling those bandages loose." She shuffles over to the table and places a bowl of soup in front of him. "And you can help me by eating everything I put in front of you; you look like you haven't had a decent meal in a long time."

He thinks about that for a moment; he honestly doesn't know the last time he ate a full meal. His handlers and employers would usually just supply him with the bare basics of vitamins and protein bars. Even in his time out of captivity he subsisted on the odd piece of fruit from street vendors and anything he could salvage from a dumpster. A homecooked meal, though? He doesn't remember ever having something like that.

The soup is amazing in every way and he finishes the bowl with no further encouragement. Anna sits across from him, working through her own bowl slowly. She looks up a few times, watching him silently like she's trying to work out a problem in her head. When she finally speaks, her voice is gentle and warm. "Forgive me for saying so but you look like you're trying to run away from something."

He freezes momentarily and she holds up one hand in apology. "Sorry if it's a delicate subject; I meant no offense. You just have that look about you. Like you're torn between trying to get away and wondering if you should stay instead."

Her words leave him floored and frozen. He's been doing his dead level best not to think about it for days now but she's right. There was something holding him back: the Captain, Steve. He can't bring himself to disappear completely, not yet, and he doesn't know why. Somewhere deep in his gut he knows Steve has the answers he needs, the past he can't remember, but he doesn't dare face him. Not yet.

He needs to stay away to keep them both safe because he doesn't trust himself around Steve. He nearly killed him a few weeks ago and the thought of hurting him again, intentionally or accidentally, makes him feel sick. He knows he should go, run far away and never return because that's the only way to keep Steve safe but he can't. He can't bring himself to go because Steve represents everything he's lost, everything he wanted to find again. He can't bring himself to go because he fears that if he does he really will be lost forever.

"It's complicated," he says finally, the words coming out slow and cautious like he doesn't trust them either. "My life...I don't know much about it." He gestures toward his head with his right hand, keeping the left firmly planted on his leg. "There are these huge gaps in my memory, holes that take up more space than anything else. What happened to me...I don't remember much of my life or who I am, who I used to be. There is someone who might be able to help me remember but…"

He shakes his head slowly and lets the sentence run off into the void. "I'm too dangerous to be around him right now. Running away...it might just be the best option for the time being."

For a moment Anna doesn't speak, she just listens to him quietly. Her expression is soft and compassionate, her eyes gentle. It makes his heart clench in his chest. "It'll get awful lonely that way."

He chuckles humorlessly and looks away. "Lonely is good, though. Lonely means I can't hurt anyone."

Anna gives him a small, sad smile and shakes her head. "Isolation isn't always the answer, honey, even if it feels like it is. But if you think that's what you need to do to get your life back then by all means. Sometimes the first and hardest step is to face ourselves."

He nods once in response. Her words are wise and poignant and they cut to the heart of everything swirling around in his mind. One of the most challenging, difficult things about not remembering his life before The Fall was not knowing who he is now. The man he was before, James, Bucky, he wasn't that person anymore. He wasn't the Winter Soldier either. He doesn't know who he is, who he's supposed to be, and he thinks figuring that out will be the first step before he can do anything else.

Anything else he might have said is cut off by a sudden crack of thunder overhead that's powerful enough to rattle the cabinets. Anna flinches just slightly and he doesn't jump so much as go completely rigid. It takes a second or so for him to physically tamp down the urge to bolt for the door.

Anna simply looks up at the ceiling like she can somehow see the thunderclap in motion. "Flashlights might not be a terrible idea," she mumbles, standing slowly and walking over to a small pantry beside the refrigerator. She plucks a few flashlights from one of the shelves and walks back across to the kitchen table.

"Might want to keep one of these handy for the next couple hours," she says, passing one to him.

He takes it wordlessly; he's not worried about potential power outages but he's not going to deny her offering either.

The rest of the evening passes by with the heavy patter of rain and the dull rumble of thunder. Anna tells him all about her husband and how they met and the warm, loving smile on her face makes every second worth it. She tells him about her children and her grandchildren, about her work as a school teacher and her volunteer work at various churches and shelters around the city. She tells him about her life and he wishes he could tell her anything about his own life but he simply doesn't have the memories for it.

He decides then and there, in Anna's kitchen sitting at her table, the kind of man he wants to be. He wants to be someone worthy of Anna's warmth and kindness, of her hospitality and gentle, sweet words. She and her family were the kinds of people he wanted to defend, the ones he wanted to shield from the horrors of the world. He had seen and done so many awful things through Hydra that it was remarkably easy for him to forget that kind, good people still existed.

He doesn't know that he's ever done anything good in his life, he doesn't know if he will ever be able to make up for the horrible things he knows he's done, but he thinks in that moment that he wants to be someone worthy of someone like Anna.

The rain continues for most of the evening, heavy downpours at times and pitiful sprinkles others. Anna insists he stay there for the evening, pointing out that the storm isn't due to subside until sometime after 5 am. She also makes it very clear that 'no' is not an option and even though he's only known her for a few hours, he knows better than to test her.

The sofa in the living room folds out into a single bed and Anna provides him with an armful of sheets, pillows, and quilts that looks like they're older than she is. She helps him set up the bed, apologizing a few more times about the still non-existent mess only she's worried about. He assures her several times that it's fine, really, there's nothing to apologize for, but it seems to fall on deaf ears.

Once the bed is made, Anna steps back and surveys it silently for a few minutes. She doesn't seem satisfied but, once again, he reassures her that it's fine. More than fine. He doesn't know how he'll ever be able to repay the kindness she'd shown him and the bed was just one more thing to add to the list.

She turns to him then, looking him up and down briefly, and offers a warm smile. "Let me know if you need anything else; I'll be right down the hall." She reaches out and squeezes his flesh hand gently. "You're safe here."

It's an odd statement to and even odder feeling. He's never felt safe anywhere and no one has ever told him he was. He doesn't really know how to take the assurance so he just nods and tries for a smile again.

"Thank you," he says genuinely because it's the only thing he can think of to say. "For everything."

Anna returns his smile. "You're welcome, honey." She turns and leaves then, disappearing from the room and making her way to the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door closes with a soft click and he's alone again.

He doesn't sleep that night for fear that the inevitable nightmares will wake her up. Instead he stays awake and keeps watch over the house. It's not much but he feels like it's the least he can do and he does so gladly.

The rain patters to a stop just after 5 am and he stands silently, gathering the quilts and sheets Anna had supplied him with and folding them carefully. He folds the couch back into its rightful place and tucks the bedding into a neat pile on the corner of the cushions. The room is neat and organized and he leaves it that way so Anna doesn't have to clean up behind him.

The apartment is still dark and he knows Anna is still asleep so he creeps to the front door silently, slipping outside onto the porch and closing the door quietly behind him. He hears the lock catch and the door knob doesn't turn again once it's locked in place. Satisfied, he steps off the front porch and leaves the apartment in his wake.

He knows he can never repay her for her kindness or the wisdom she'd imparted while he was there but he vows to make himself into even half the person she thinks he is. He's not a good person but Anna is and he owes it to her to try.

He finds his way back a few days later with a handful of flowers he'd salvaged from the back of a florist's shop. They're not perfect and some of the petals are wilted and drooping but it's the best he can do and he hopes it's enough. He leaves them on her doorstep and walks away, not stopping to see if she'll come to the door.

When he passes by a final time a day later he sees the flowers in a vase displayed prominently in the front window. He feels a genuine smile for the first time in years.


Thanks for reading guys! :D