13.
A Letter Never Sent
Decades had passed since the world had laid Steve Rogers to rest in the ice. Time had moved on, the war had been won, and legends had been born. The world had forgotten some things, but others—things that mattered—stayed.
The museum was quiet. A quiet you could only find in places where the past lived in glass cases and yellowed pages. It wasn't the kind of place that felt alive, yet there was something about it that seemed to whisper, just beneath the surface.
A museum curator, an older woman named Sarah, was going through old military documents, relics from the past, some left behind by those who'd once shaped the world with their hands. Among the boxes filled with medals, papers, and uniforms, she found something strange—a notebook.
The cover was weathered, the pages cracked. It was a simple thing, nothing remarkable about it at first glance. But it had a weight to it. A heaviness. Something that made her pause.
She opened it, flipping through the worn pages. The handwriting was familiar—familiar because it looked like the words of someone who had lived a lifetime ago, someone who had never quite been able to leave their past behind.
The letters were addressed to Bucky.
Steve Rogers had written them, over the years, but never sent them. They were fragments of a life left unfinished. A life that had been stolen from him, from all of them. The pages spoke of memories—of Brooklyn, of the war, of the cold and the isolation. But there was one letter that caught her attention.
"I hope you made it, Buck. I hope you lived. I hope… I hope I get to see you again someday."
It was unfinished. The words were raw, the kind that came from a heart torn between hope and the kind of sorrow that could only come from losing someone you never thought you would have to live without. The letter stopped there, the ink trailing off the page as if Steve had run out of time—or maybe just the will to finish.
The curator sat back, feeling the weight of the years in her chest. There was a silence in the room, one that seemed to stretch out for eternity. She closed the notebook slowly, running her fingers across the weathered cover, her mind lingering on the man who had written these words.
Steve Rogers—Captain America—was no longer a symbol of a war fought long ago. He was a man who had lived, who had loved, who had hoped.
And in the end, he had left something behind.
The book closed with a soft thud. But in that moment, something shifted in the air, as if the past and present had brushed against each other, a fleeting touch.
Somewhere, far away, a new story was beginning. Maybe it was the story of someone who had once been lost, who had found their way back. Or maybe it was just the world continuing to turn, as it always did, bringing new faces, new struggles, new dreams.
But for now, the curator sat in the silence, holding onto a memory that wasn't hers to keep. And somewhere, far off, she imagined Steve Rogers had found peace, at last.
And maybe—just maybe—he'd gotten the chance to see his best friend again.