The Museum and The Watch
Elara Monroe was twenty-four years old the first time she fell out of time.
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday, beneath a cold blue sky that pressed down on the city like memory. She had just finished her shift at the university library, grabbed a lukewarm coffee from a vendor who never smiled, and slipped through the revolving doors of the Captain America museum with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going.
She always walked a little slower in here.
Her boots tapped gently against the marble floor, and she moved past glass cases and softly humming audio guides like she was visiting a friend. In a way, she was. The exhibit was familiar to her, too familiar. The same low-lit corridors, the same soft instrumental track in the background. Displays that spoke of bravery and sacrifice, of symbols and legacies. Of Steve Rogers.
But Elara didn’t come for the myth.
She came for the man.
Each visit brought her back to one photo in particular. Steve, pre-serum, seated on a stoop in Brooklyn. The photo had always stopped her heart in the same quiet way. His hair was mussed, his clothes too big, and his expression… lost in thought. Or maybe in grief. It wasn’t the look of a soldier, or even a hero. Just a boy trying to find his place in a world that didn’t yet know his name.
Maybe that was what Elara connected to.
She, too, had grown up in the margins. A scholarship student in a city that moved too fast. Raised by her grandmother after her parents died in a car accident when she was seven. Books had been her salvation, museums her sanctuaries. She devoured biographies and journal entries, lived in dusty archives and quiet corners of the past, clinging to stories that made her feel less alone.
Steve Rogers had been one of those stories.
He was the reason she had majored in history. The reason she’d applied, twice, for an internship at the Captain America Historical Foundation. And now, at last, she was here. Cataloging artifacts, shadowing curators, preparing for grad school. Living her dream… or trying to.
But lately, it felt like something was missing.
She wandered deeper into the east wing, where the foot traffic thinned and the lights dimmed, casting everything in a golden half-glow. Her ID badge gave her access to the restricted section behind the velvet ropes, a room reserved for researchers and staff, lined with crates and archival boxes not yet restored for public viewing.
The air smelled like aged paper and cedar polish. Comfortable. Familiar.
Her gloved hands moved carefully as she opened a plain wooden crate marked with faded Stark Industries branding. Inside were old schematics, a cracked pair of goggles, and a black leather case she didn’t recognize.
It was small enough to fit in one hand. No label. No accompanying notes.
Curiosity piqued, Elara opened it.
Inside was a pocket watch.
Not ornate or flashy. Just silver. Smooth. The surface caught the light in a way that made her pause. It was beautifully preserved, but there was no inscription, no design. Just… silence. The kind that feels heavy. Important.
She touched it.
And the watch ticked once.
She flinched, startled, but the room didn’t echo. The sound wasn’t loud. Just final.
Then everything changed.
The museum seemed to bend inward, sound vanishing, light folding in on itself. The floor beneath her feet shifted. Her knees buckled. The air went cold, sharp like wind on a mountaintop. Her stomach lurched.
There was no time to scream.
Only the feeling of falling, not down, but sideways—like slipping through a crack in the world.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
Elara gasped and opened her eyes.
She wasn’t in the museum anymore.
The air smelled like coal and roasted peanuts. The sky was overcast, the buildings older. Dustier. Real.
A trolley clattered past. A newspaper boy shouted about war in Europe. And around her, people bustled in suits and dresses, men tipping hats, women clutching grocery bags and ration coupons.
It was Brooklyn.
But not hers.
She turned in place, stunned. Her breath caught in the cold air, leaving fog on the breeze. The watch sat warm and quiet in her palm.
Elara Monroe, twenty-four years old, with a degree in modern American history and a deep love for lost things, had just stepped into the past.
And time… time wasn’t done with her yet.