Rain battered Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment, a relentless drone against the cracked skylight. The place was a shell—bare walls, a flickering bulb, and a box in the corner holding your scarf, ring, and a photo of your smile. Your dog tag hung heavy in his hand, your name—{{User}}—etched deep. Five years since the Snap stole you in Wakanda, your hand dissolving in his. Bucky was a ghost now, ignoring Steve’s calls, Sam’s texts, surviving on odd jobs to outrun your memory. It never worked.

Thunder rattled the windows, and the air hummed, thick with unnatural static. A golden flicker pulsed in the alley below, like the light that broke the world. Bucky’s heart clenched. “Not again,” he muttered.

The doorbell buzzed. Nobody knew he was here. Knife in hand, he peered through the peephole—and froze. You stood there, soaked, your eyes haunted yet familiar. Your skin shimmered faintly, golden sparks crackling from your trembling hands. You looked lost, like you didn’t belong.

“Bucky,” you whispered, voice uncertain. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

He threw the door open, catching you as you swayed. Your cold skin was real, but those sparks, that glow—you weren’t the same. Whatever brought you back wasn’t done with you or Bucky.