Chào các bạn! Vì nhiều lý do từ nay Truyen2U chính thức đổi tên là Truyen247.Pro. Mong các bạn tiếp tục ủng hộ truy cập tên miền mới này nhé! Mãi yêu... ♥

02: GLASS HOUSE

         The sound of the car's exhaust fills my ears as it pulls away, leaving me standing alone in front of my childhood home. Brookline, a place where I learned to take my first tentative steps, discovered the enchantment of the piano, and became fascinated by old books. And today, this very place threatens to open the floodgates of my mind and consume me whole. The house, once a place of comfort and warmth, now stands silent, a sentinel to a life that I once lost. Memories of family dinners, birthday parties, and sewing with my mother in the living room, collide with my life as an assassin. The innocence of my former life intermingles with the harrowing experiences I've endured, painting this place with a complex tapestry of emotions and memories.

Balancing the box in my hands, I search for the house keys in my pocket. My fingers, once steady, betray me with a subtle tremor as I insert the key into the keyhole. The familiar sound of the lock clicking sends a shiver down my spine, and the door creaks open to reveal the interior of my long-lost home. My heart pounds as I step through the threshold, the interior seemingly has been trapped in time, transporting me back into my younger years. Old family photos line the walls, a thick layer of dust covers every surface, as if this place has been untouched since the moment I left. As if the world inside has been frozen like I have been for a lifetime.

Every step brings me further into the threshold, and even in my own home, I'm hesitant. I feel like a stranger; an intruder to a life that was once mine, but most certainly, one I will have to get to know again. The floorboards creak beneath my feet, every sound bringing this place back to life, one step at a time. I peer through open doorways, seeing worn furniture, antique clocks, and eventually, navigating my way into the kitchen. I never truly realized how much I've failed to remember. The flood of forgotten memories washes over me, pieces of the past returning in fragments, like fleeting glimpses from another lifetime.

But then, I realize something's out of place. Once I reach the kitchen, there is another box waiting for me on the table, like it materialized out of thin air. On the wooden surface, a neatly folded letter sits before the box, calling to me like a siren to a passing sailor. My curiosity gets the best of me as I stride towards the table, gently picking up the letter. Scribed on the outside is my first name, and the moment I read it, I automatically know whose handwriting it is–it's Steve's. Before I can stop myself, I open the note:

Lonnie,

I hope this letter finds you well. I figured after years of longing to go home, you'd find yourself here. This very house has been kept in your family for many generations, and after talking with them, they wanted you to have it. I know this is an adjustment for you and I wanted to make sure I could help you transition as much as I possibly can.

Inside this box, you will find many of your belongings that you left behind in New York and Wakanda, and most importantly, your identification that you will need to embark on this new journey. Oh, and one more thing. Take the small box with you into your garage. I figured you'd need something useful.

I wish you nothing but success in this next phase of your life. You've always had my support.

-Steve

          A warm feeling spreads throughout my chest as I finished reading the note. Every time I begin to think I'm alone in this, someone comes along to guide me in the process–and Steve is the person I can thank over and over again for it. Taking a seat at the table, I open the cardboard box, tearing the tape off the top of it. Inside, I find various items and mementos from the past few years, each one bearing memories and a sense of nostalgia. It's a strange sensation, having both my past and my present converging in this moment. It's as though my life has come full circle, and I'm given a chance to reconnect with who I once was, while also embracing the person I've become.

The contents of the box reveal glimpses of my life, like scattered puzzle pieces waiting to be put together. A cell phone, my lifeline to the present, promising connections and communication. A few of my old journals, pages filled with my thoughts, dreams, and aspirations, relics of a time when I was still discovering who I was as a person. Photographs faded with time but still captured precious moments from my time in New York and Wakanda, reminding me of the friendships and bonds I forged. My crossbow and a set of my favorite knives, instruments that served a darker purpose but are a part of who I was–of who I still am. The letter from my mother, the words inside a fragile link to my past and a source of mixed emotions. And finally, the small box Steve mentioned, a mystery yet to be unveiled.

I open the small box, revealing a set of more modern keys and a small, neatly folded note. The note reads, 'To remember the thrill -SR'.

As I pick up the keys, a spark of recognition courses throughout my body. This feel of nostalgia, the newness, the anticipation, it is a feeling I know all too well. Before I can hesitate, my feet take me towards the garage, my mind knowing exactly where to go. I open the door from the kitchen, making my way into the garage, feeling like a child on Christmas morning. And there, under a black tarp, is my gift. I recognize it instantly, knowing this is exactly what I've been needing. A rush of gratitude washes over me as I uncover the sleek, midnight black motorcycle, running my fingers along the smooth, polished surface. It's a symbol of my freedom and my ode to the thrill I will receive once more. Steve Rogers, you are a gift to humanity.

Itching for my first moments in this life, I'm ready to take my first step into the new chapter of my life. I approach the garage door, gripping the handle with a newfound sense of liberty. With a firm pull, I raise the door, revealing the world outside and the open road that awaits.I reach for the helmet that rests on the end of the seat, sliding it over my head and securing the chinstrap. It fits snugly, a protective shield for the journey ahead. My hands, once trembling with uncertainty, now feel steady as I grip the motorcycle's handles.

I take a deep breath, feeling the rush of air fill my lungs. With a sense of resolve, I insert the key into the ignition and turn it. The motorcycle comes to life, the engine's powerful vibrations reverberating through my body. It's a symphony of newfound freedom, the melody of a life waiting to be lived. With a twist of the throttle, I slowly ease out of the garage and onto the driveway. The world beyond is bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun, and the open road stretches out before me, promising endless possibilities.

I rev the engine, feeling its raw power beneath me. With each twist of the throttle, I inch closer to the horizon, where the past and the future converge. As I pull away from the house and onto the open road, I can't help but smile. The wind whips around me, carrying away the weight of the past and leaving only the exhilaration of the present moment. Because this is my time to prove myself. I don't need anyone telling me how to live it. With a sudden rush, I take off, weaving in and out of cars as I move further away from my comfort.

And for the first time in my ninety-nine years of life, I have nothing but the open around ahead of me. There is no one chasing me, there is no mission. There is only peace, I think.

***

Sitting in my kitchen, I find myself surrounded by the relics of my past and the silent echoes of memories that once brought warmth to these walls. The house I grew up in, the place I called home, feels strangely foreign. The family photos on the walls, the creaky wooden floors, and the scent of old furniture, none of it brings me the comfort it once did. But I don't entirely feel like I belong here. Yes, it has been given to me for the taking, but I haven't stepped foot in this place since the twentieth century. It is the ghost of who I was in my past, but I am also a ghost in the present. Nothing truly feels like my own. And I'm not sure if it ever will. Regardless of the emptiness I feel within these walls, the one thing I can find comfort in is my journal. Blank pages spilled open before me, dressed in a comfort set of sweatpants and a hoodie, I know that this is one place I can truly announce my true emotions.

The soft, warm glow of the overhead light above the sink illuminates the kitchen.  The silence that surrounds me is comforting and unsettling, a stark reminder of the solitude that I've carried for so long. The room is inviting to all my thoughts, good and bad. My journal, its blank pages sprawled out in front of me, my mind is blank, the words struggling to come to the surface. Nothing makes sense, this life doesn't make sense, but I cannot let the fear of the unknown stop me from making something for myself.

The glass of water is cool against my lips, but it fails to quench the thirst for something I can't quite define. The ghosts of my past still linger, and this place, my supposed sanctuary, can't chase them away. With my journal and pen in hand, I attempt to bridge the gap between the person I once was and the person I want to become. The ink flows onto the page, but the words are heavy, reflecting the dissonance I feel within myself. The truth is, I don't know where I belong anymore, and the road ahead remains a daunting and uncertain path.

Will I ever be the person I'm meant to become? Or will I remain a shell of the person I've become?

My gaze shifts to the smartphone that lays on the table beside me. Curiously, I set down my pen and reach for it, my fingers sliding across the smooth surface to unlock it. It's a sleek, modern device that I've become somewhat familiar with, but certainty, it's something I will learn as time goes on. I scroll through my limited contacts that consist of Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, Dr. Beckett–who I assume is my therapist–and then, I see his name. Bucky's name illuminates my screen. My temptation to call him, to hear his voice, to confide in him, lingers like a quiet melody in the background. My finger hovers over the call button, but something holds me back, a hesitation that won't let go.

It's the fear of disrupting his newfound peace, of being an unwanted intrusion on his life, keeps me from making the call. With a heavy heart, I put the phone back down on the table. I know that this is something I have to face on my own, to find my place that has long moved forward. And deep within, I hope that Bucky will live up to his promise, the one he made when we parted ways after Tony's funeral.

Fatigue settles in, prompting me to abandon my writing and seek the comfort of the living room. As I tread across the wooden floor, intent on letting the night have its reign, a subtle vibration breaks through the silence. Stepping forward, my phone resting on the kitchen table suddenly awakens with the familiar ringtone. The sound is disruptive in the peaceful ambiance, causing my heart to race with an unexpected mix of excitement and anxiety. Glancing back, I catch a glimpse of Bucky's name illuminating the screen.

In that brief moment, a surge of longing to hear his voice and feel the warmth of his presence overtakes me. I consider reaching for the phone, surrendering to the yearning for connection. But I also understand that this journey must be mine, a path to rediscover myself, to regain control over my life. Am I making the right decision here?

Taking a deep breath, I swallow the lump in my throat and decide to leave the call unanswered. As I move further into the living room, each ring is a reminder of the bond we share, pulling at the threads of my resolve. It's a choice that brings both relief and sorrow, for I have chosen solitude to retrace my steps, to redefine who I am. The phone's unending ring becomes the backdrop to my bittersweet walk away, leaving behind the opportunity to hear his voice but paving the way for my personal transformation.

I know in this solitude, amidst an unanswered phone call, I am creating my first steps in this life–but am I doing things the right way?

a/n - sorry for the wait!! I'm coming at you with the second chapter and I hope you all like it! let me know what you think :)) -k

Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen247.Pro