Close to my father, who was wearing a dark blue cap to hide his face in order to go up in the crowd, I crossed the museum's threshold. We shuffled along with the queue of people, many with children - of whom some were eager to go in, bouncing up and down, while others hung at their parents' hand with sour faces. Also present in large quantities were older people (who, let's be honest, were probably still younger than dad) in big parties with tour guides, all worried they would get lost or lose their group. Those little flags functioned as their guiding beacons.
I was experiencing something of a mixture of it all. Because finally, after all this time, I would see it all. Everything my father had tried to shield me from, a world full of peril and humans who didn't seem to deserve that title. Filled with people without any humanity left.
In that moment I was a lot of things; eager to know; unhappy about the circumstances; anxious I'd get swallowed up by the crowd; frightened to lose my father again; determined to carry on.

Since I didn't care anymore how I looked or how I got across to the hundreds of strangers around me, I was wearing oversized sweatpants and hoody, knowing no one from my former life would ever recognise me. I barely felt like the same person, anyway. I was nothing like the confident, strong Jaylin who had wanted to do everything on her own. If I'd go back to school, no one would think the hollow-eyed girl was Jailyn Rogers. Even I wondered, whenever I looked into the mirror or saw a picture of myself, how both of those people belonged to the same body.

While dad was near to make me feel safe, outside the noble building was Natasha sitting on the great steps leading up to the entrance, keeping an eye out, while Sam used his wings to get an overview. I had to trust upon their protection. Frankly, their presence was probably more to easy my nerve than to actually take down bad guys. But, like usual, my brain couldn't convince my heart it was safe – especially since most of my brains had stopped believing in safety, for they remembered vividly what had been done to them.

Dad lead me to the exhibitions, with his hand on my back at all times. My fingers grasped a piece of his shirt, to reassure myself I wouldn't lose track of him. The exhibition wasn't hard to find, as there were many posters and signs leading to it, many of which carrying pictures of my father's face. "Welcome Back Captain", one of those signs read. It was weird, seeing all these pictures of him - all these people coming to learn about him. Sure, I had known who he was all my life, but seeing with my own eyes how famous he was… it was bizarre. He was just my dad.

We walked silently and slowly through the exhibition. I read every sentence there was, studied every picture. I wanted to know, finally know. Here lay my father's story, for the world to see. He had given them so much, and yet now his entire life had been left to be seen by anyone. Except for me, I realised. I was some private part of his life. There wasn't a single picture of me. I was still his.

I kept glancing at the middle of the exhibition; a wall with a picture of Captain America and the Howling Commandos, with their uniforms worn by unmoving, blank looking mannequins in front of it. It had a strange pulling effect one me.
Eventually, I reached a wall dedicated to Steve Rogers' childhood friend, James Buchanan Barnes. Seeing these pictures and videos of him was odd, with his short hair, 40ties uniform and human expression. This was nothing like the man I had met.
There was this video of him, after dad had saved him from HYDRA, in which he was smiling, laughing, his face rounded by the happy expression. His nose scrunched up a little as he did so. This was barely more than a boy. This was a human being. He was free, and he had chosen to fight for what he thought was right. This wasn't a machine.

Though there was this picture of him staring into the distance, with a distant, far-away look which I found very familiar. But another photograph showed him focussing on a map or plane of sorts, his concentration clearly visible on his face. I recognised that look too; from when he'd lain me down after another session in "the chair", and I had still been trembling. He'd arranged my body in a way to relief the parts most badly hurt and had most carefully pushed the thread-like strands of hair away from my face.
I had barely been conscious, and when his hand trailed down my cheek, I had taken his left hand and held it in my weak grip and trailed my thumbs around the knuckles. 'So cold…' I'd whispered. Then I'd taken the hand still against my face and held it in the same way. 'Warm…' I'd tried to arrange my face into a smile, though I hadn't even known how to do that anymore.
At that moment, his eyes had softened in a way that had burned itself on my retina. It was the moment he looked most like a human – the moment, I realises, I'd seen a glimpse of the man that lay beneath the ghost; the man preserved on shiny paper and reels of film.

We carefully made our way towards the centre, where there also was a large picture of Bucky. He seemed determined, proud, strong, brave, even handsome in his new uniform. He stood next to the Captain, unaware of his impending doom. I looked up, and the sadness in dad's eyes. His face had lost its usual strong expression of determination. I gripped his hand. 'I am so sorry,' I whispered.
Dad tried to smile, but failed tragically. 'He looked right at me,' he shook his head, ' he looked right at me and didn't even recognise me.'
'You don't know that. He seemed shaken, he-' my voice cracked as I thought back. 'He was speaking English,' I said. This was something I had realised a long time ago, when I had gotten most of my own mind back, and I couldn't stop thinking about the man who'd taken me. 'He never did that. I think you did trigger some part of him, the old Bucky.'
Dad nodded, though hopelessness had taken over his eyes. 'Maybe.'
I hugged him tightly. I looked at the young men on the memorial wall. Both of them had been thought dead. They had both done and given everything for their country, for the world. And what had the world given them in return?
I was starting to shake lightly - not a good sign.
'Come.' I was lead outside, back to the car. No one bothered us. No one recognised us. If I just didn't think for a moment, I could pretend we were part of the crowd, part of the people who were just curious about a past unknown and distant to them. To whom these soldiers were no more than pictures and names. Who didn't know who the Winter Soldier was.