Pieces of New Life
The apartment above Mrs. Donnelly’s shop was modest and worn by time, yet it wrapped around Elara like a quilt. It had a lumpy couch, a kitchen that groaned every time she used the faucet, and creaky wooden floors that spoke of decades of stories. But it was safe. And for now, that was more than enough.
Elara woke each day disoriented, her heart fighting to remember where, and when she was. But the city outside didn’t lie. Brooklyn in the 1940s was alive with clattering trolleys, ration lines, cigarette smoke curling in the air, and voices that carried stories of war and resilience. Every morning, she stood by the window and whispered, “You’re really here,” as if convincing herself.
Her first task had been finding a job. She couldn’t live on Mrs. Donnelly’s kindness forever. With forged documents Howard Stark never would’ve approved of, and a trembling sense of purpose, she wandered the neighborhood, scanning shop windows and asking for help in clipped, polite sentences. But it was Steve who eventually came through.
They’d run into each other at the corner grocer. Steve was holding a basket of canned beans and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Elara,” he said, surprised. He blinked as if she might vanish if he looked away.
“Steve,” she replied, her smile reaching her tired eyes.
They walked together for a few blocks. She didn’t say much—she hadn’t yet found the words to describe how jarring it was to know too much about someone history had turned into a myth. But Steve asked her if she was doing all right. She told him she was trying.
That’s when he offered to help. “There’s a bookstore. The owner’s a friend of my ma’s. She’s looking for someone part-time.”
Elara’s heart softened. “You’d do that for me?”
He shrugged, awkward. “Like I told you, I might be able to help.”
The shop was tucked into a quiet street, smelling of paper and ink and rain-soaked wood. Mrs. Sheridan, the owner, was sharp as a tack but kind. She liked Elara’s quiet demeanor and her surprising knowledge of rare titles. Within a week, Elara was dusting spines, organizing new arrivals, and escaping into words that were decades older than her present self.
She began building a new rhythm. Morning walks. Bookstore shifts. Visits to the market. Listening to the radio while sketching in her notebook, though her sketches always ended up being of Steve.
They met often now. Sometimes he came by the store, pretending to browse but always walking away with a copy of something she’d set aside. Once, he brought her flowers—just because, he’d said. Just because the world needed softness.
Steve was different from the man memorialized in glass displays and bronze statues. This version of him was quieter, uncertain. He winced when he laughed too loud and still apologized when someone bumped into him. But he watched the world closely. And he watched her even more carefully.
Elara caught him once, his eyes narrowed in curiosity as she expertly identified the name of a jazz musician before the radio host even spoke. Another time, she referenced an event that hadn’t quite happened yet. Steve had tilted his head, amused.
“You know a lot about this city,” he said.
“I read too much,” she replied, with a quick, evasive smile.
But he didn’t believe her. Not fully.
One afternoon, as rain tapped against the bookstore’s window and they sorted a shipment of novels, Steve broke the silence.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Elara froze. She turned a book over in her hand, reading the cover as if it could offer her a way out.
“I mean,” Steve continued, gentler now, “you carry yourself like someone who’s… passing through. Like you’re always waiting for something to end.”
She looked at him then. Really looked. There was no judgment in his expression, just an earnestness that carved into her chest.
“Maybe,” she said softly, “I’m waiting for something to begin.”
Steve nodded, as if he understood more than she intended him to. And just like that, the moment passed.
But Elara knew. The more time she spent here, the more she allowed herself to be here, the harder it would be to leave.
Because Steve Rogers, the man behind the myth, was beginning to matter to her. And she feared he would break her heart without ever meaning to.
And worse still, she feared she would break his.