The museum was quiet today. Soft echoes. Warm lights. And the faint hum of history thrumming under your fingertips.

You stood in front of a glass case displaying a rusted dagger—centuries old, ceremonial, forgotten by the world.

But not by you.

Because when you lightly touched the glass above it, warmth rushed up your arm, followed by flashes— voices, hands passing it between generations, a long-ago betrayal, the weight of a silent promise.

It settled in your chest, gentle and heavy at the same time.

You sighed. This was why you came here. History wasn’t dead. It sang to you.

You moved to the next exhibit, fingers brushing the edge of the display plaque… when you froze.

This time, it wasn’t ancient history. It was recent. Too recent.

Gunmetal. Whispered commands. The emblem of a skull. Hydra.

You snapped your hand back, breath shaky.

This artifact didn’t belong here. Someone planted it.

You took a step back— and bumped straight into someone tall.

A gloved hand steadied your shoulder.

Steve Rogers: “You alright, kid?”

Your heart nearly stopped. Because behind him, spreading through the museum like subtle security, were Natasha, Sam, and Bucky.

They hadn’t come for the displays.

They came for you.

Natasha crossed her arms, studying you the way only she could—calculating, quiet, oddly gentle when it came to kids.