I rise from the makeshift bed on the living room floor, my sense slowly coming to life. Last night was my first night in this place, and I couldn't seem to get comfortable. I managed to find comfort on the worn, hardwood floors. Although it was a restless sleep, I found it to be a success, nonetheless. The uncertainty of my new life weighs heavy on my mind, but I know that I have to at least make an attempt to make it my 'new normal'.

The first rays of sunlight filter through the old curtains, creating an intricate pattern across the floors. It's a new day, a fresh start, and one more step in the right direction, I suppose. With a sigh, I slowly get up and tread into the kitchen. I make a beeline towards the coffee machine, which looks relatively new, and somehow, I know that this is one of Steve's doings. I start to brew a pot, and I rummage through the cabinets to find a mug. Once I find one, I place it on the counter, staring at the coffee machine as it brews, the comforting sound of brewing coffee filling the air. The aroma begins to spread, wrapping around me like a warm embrace. It's a small, yet reassuring sign that some aspects of this house are no longer as unfamiliar as they once were.

As I lean against the kitchen counter, my eyes scan the modest setup of the room. The familiarity of my surroundings begins to seep into my consciousness, drawing me in with a mixture of nostalgia and curiosity. I want to make this place my own, I think to myself. Once I find my routine, I want to start tearing things down and remaking this house into my own vision. I want to erase certain aspects of my past from my memory, and hopefully, start creating new ones.

But my gaze is soon drawn to the screen of my smartphone resting on the table. The device emits a faint light, indicating a missed notification. I pick it up and see that Bucky left a voicemail after I refused to answer his phone call last night. My heart skips a beat. I long to hear his voice, to find comfort in his words, but most apparent, I wish he was here with me. Taking a deep breath, I tap the voicemail and put the phone to my ear. As his voice fills my ears, I close my eyes and let the sound wash over me.

"Hey, Princess. I just wanted to let you know that I made it to Brooklyn okay. Things are going well here, but it's not the same without you. I hope everything's going okay for you in Boston. You're always on my mind. I've got some things to sort out here, but I promise I'll find my way to you as soon as I can. You know, I love you. Be safe, I'll see you soon."

My heart flutters, and for a moment, I forget about everything that worries me. Bucky's voice, his words, have always been something that has calmed me in my darkest moments. For two years, we found some semblance of peace together. And although it feels like a millennia ago that we had those moments, I know that they helped me get to this point in my life. As I set the phone down, a wide smile dances across my lips and I get butterflies in my stomach. Even when he's not with me, he makes me feel like I'm not alone in this world. That itself is enough for me. It's a reminder that even love has the power to mend even the most broken of souls.

But then, a text message notification interrupts my reverie. My therapist sends me a message regarding our first session later in the day. As I read the message, I take a deep breath, knowing that this is another step in the right direction. The direction that the government wants me to take, but also one that I need to do in order to feel normal. However, I know that these sessions won't be easy, but I plan on taking advantage of them, even though I've already been trying to work on myself over the years. Finishing the last of my coffee, I mentally prepare myself for what's to come.

***

          I've never really understood fear. To be honest, I've been the one to fear, but the idea itself, to have something terrify me, is uncharted waters. I've ventured into darkness, faced threats that loomed larger than me, and confronted many of my demons without flinching. The unknown has always been a mystery that I couldn't resist solving, an enigma to uncover. Yet, here I am, hesitating, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

The door, a portal to a life I once cherished, is now a gateway to forgotten moments and fragments of a life that I left behind. But this very room, a room that should feel familiar to me, consumes me with a fear that I cannot quite comprehend. I close my eyes for a moment, hoping that when I open them, the room would have transformed into something a little less haunting. But once I open my eyes, it remains just as it was, with all its secrets to a life I once led. I find myself in the odd place between the comfort of an old friend and the uncertainty of a stranger, much like the girl I once knew.

The faint morning light that seeps under the door beckons me forward. It whispers to me that it's time to confront what lies beyond the threshold. With newfound determination, I turn the knob and the door creaks open, revealing the familiar sight of my childhood bedroom. The room appears exactly how I remembered it, frozen in time. The curtains are open, allowing the sunlight to cast a warm and comforting glow on everything within it.

My gaze moves to the large bookshelf, lined with the novels and reference books that fueled my passion for forensic science and history. The tidy, made bed is positioned beneath my beloved window seat, the perfect spot for reading or simply gazing outside. A sense of serenity hangs in the air, as if the room has been patiently waiting for my return. This room holds the memories I have yet to remember, and home to ones that I'll create along the way.

I venture further into the room and find the walls adorned with framed family photos, each capturing moments of happiness and love. Memories of birthdays, family vacations, and holiday gatherings. My parents, my two brothers, and me, all smiles and laughter. I hope they lived a life they were happy with, all things considered.

As I approach the closet, I open the doors to reveal a multitude of clothing, each piece holding its own set of memories. Gowns worn to balls and formal events, outfits from my college days, and my plethora of lab coats. My fingers brush over the fabric, and I can't help but marvel at the stark contrast between the girl I once was and the woman I've become. Taking a deep breath, I move to the desk. It's here that my academic pursuits took shape, where I immersed myself in research and experiments. My hands hover over a collection of vintage science textbooks, each one a testament to my intellectual journey.

This room is a museum of my life before Hydra, a sanctuary that whispers promises of a brighter future. To a life filled with love and happiness, not covered in the shadows of evil. But it's also a stark reminder of the innocence I lost, the years I spent as an agent of darkness. It's a place where I must confront my past to move forward. But how will I do that if I don't know where to start?

As I continue to rediscover my room again, rummaging through the various drawers, a picture frame hidden amongst the others catches my attention. I pick it up off the vanity, my heart racing as I try to place the face. In the photograph, I see a version of myself, a bit younger than I am now, standing beside a man whose face is unfamiliar to me. We're positioned before my childhood home, framed by the grand oak tree that has been a sentinel to countless familiar portraits. Our smiles are radiant, betraying an undeniable happiness that feels distant and foreign. I can't help but notice how incredibly handsome he is, with eyes that seem to hold endless warmth and a smile that lights up the entire frame.

I focus on the image, my eyes are drawn to my own left hand, where a shimmering engagement ring adorns my finger. My gaze lingers on the man by my side, and a flurry of questions and emotions rushes through me. Who is he? Why don't I remember? And how could I have forgotten such a significant part of my life?

Placing the photograph back on the vanity, confusion swirls within me like an unrelenting storm. And I cannot control it. The man in the picture, he's a stranger in my memories, buried deep under the layers of manipulation Hydra placed upon me. I strain to recall his name, but his identity remains out of reach, like an elusive wisp of a forgotten dream.

The memories of our time together remain hidden, locked behind a door that I can't seem to open. Flashes of a life that I can't grasp, a life Hydra wanted to steal from me. I long for the memories to come flooding back, as they always have, but these are different. They persist as enigmatic silhouettes, a series of shadows that have no meaning to me. Not now, at least. But I digress. I can't stand here and dwell on the past; there are too many questions to be answered and more confusion arises from them. My immediate concern is the therapy session I must attend, and that makes me have to focus on the present.

Resolute, I make my way into the bathroom that is connected to my bedroom. Turning on the shower, I slowly undress, allowing the water to warm up before I get in. Stepping in, I let the warm water cascade over me like a soothing embrace, washing away my worries. But my mind wanders to the man in the photograph. I wonder who he was. What he was like. And what could've been.

After all, what should my life have looked like?

***

          Dr. Beckett's office is a calming space with beige walls, adorned with abstract paintings that are scattered across the walls. As I step into the room, my gaze momentarily flickers around, hesitantly observing my surroundings. I know it's dumb to think that I'd be put in a dire situation here, but it's out of habit. Closing the door behind me, I'm met with the therapist, a composed woman with an air of compassion that radiates from her. She smiles warmly, extending her hand towards me. I reciprocate the gesture, my grip tight, maybe a little too tight, as I cling onto my helmet. This is unfamiliar territory once again.

"Dr. Beckett, I presume," I say, my voice carrying a sense of unease. Although I've met with a therapist before, these introductions don't get any easier. I don't think I'll ever get used to telling my story, nor would I want to share it willingly.

She nods, gracefully. There is nothing about her that I can question. My very presence doesn't deter her from wanting to help me through this process. "Yes, indeed. It's nice to meet you, Avalon," she confirms with an inviting smile, observing my subtly unsettled demeanor. She picks up her notebook and a pen, placing it on her lap before looking back up at me, kindly. "So, Avalon, why don't we begin? You can share as much or as little as you're comfortable with."

I nod silently, trying to gauge my unease. My fingers, trembling slightly, cling to the helmet as though it's a life preserver in a stormy sea. I ease my grip but can't help but feel the walls of my internal barriers are climbing higher by the minute. I can't help but feel a twig of annoyance. I've been through this process before, and these conversations haven't helped me come to terms with my past.

Still, I oblige, because I have no other option than to conform with this process. "Well, you've probably seen my file. I had a rather...unfortunate life that I was given. Nothing that I had a hand in deciding."

Dr. Beckett maintains her empathetic demeanor, her gaze locked onto me as she listens intently. "Your file does contain a wealth of information. However, I'm interested in your perspective and your feelings. You were put through a great ordeal, and I can imagine how difficult this transition may be for you."

She listens attentively as I share my reservations about therapy. I can tell she genuinely wants to help, but I can't deny the complex mix of emotions and frustrations I feel about revisiting my painful past.

"I get that, but it doesn't make the memories any less painful. Listen, I've been through this therapy thing before when I was in Wakanda. It's not that I'm ungrateful for the help. It's just... not easy to revisit those memories," I explain to her, trying to be transparent about my apprehension. I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be. I wouldn't want to do this again, but I have to. "I know what I did. I live with nightmares. I have two personalities that I've learned to control. What else are you expecting from me?"

I shift in my seat, my fingers tightening their grip on the helmet that sits on my lap. Dr. Beckett nods understandingly, her gaze soft as she listens to my words. She's patient, knowing that it takes time to open up about a life as traumatic as mine.

"I don't expect you to bare your soul into one session, Avalon. These sessions are about trust, about finding a way to heal," she says, sympathetically, " Your resistance is understandable, but I want you to know that I'm here to help, not to judge. Your journey may be a long one, but it's one that you get to decide the pace of."

She begins to shift the conversation towards my time with Hydra, and I find myself answering her questions nonchalantly, though my mind often drifts back to the mysterious man. As I recount my past, I answer her inquiries, but my responses are somewhat absentminded. I'm a well-trained operative, skilled in evading questions, but my current state isn't one of evasiveness. Rather, it's the struggle to focus. My thoughts keep circling back to the engagement ring, the faceless man, and the life I may have once had. But why not focus on what you have now, Avalon? What happened to not caring about what you had?

Dr. Beckett's voice becomes a distant hum as I become lost in my own world. The room around me fades into the background, my attention consumed by a past that remains just out of reach. I don't know how these memories have failed to come back to me. However, I know that it's not my own doing.

Without intending to, my voice escapes in a distant, absent-minded tone, "I have a fiancé." There's a moment of stillness, a beat of silence that feels like an eternity. The therapist blinks in surprise before her expression softens into understanding. I quickly reword my statement, my fingers picking nervously at my nails as I avert my gaze, my voice now hesitant, "I— I had a fiancé... I think?" The uncertainty in my words hangs heavily in the room, reflecting the jumbled and fragmented state of my memories.

Dr. Beckett's expression is soft, understanding that I may not have all the answers to my own questions. She doesn't look at me differently. She crosses her legs, placing her pen down before she speaks. "What leads you to believe this?"

"Going through my bedroom, I stumbled across a photograph of this man and I," I say, finding it weird to talk about this out loud. I know I have to be honest, but I'm scared of what will come of this information. However, it's better to speak now than to forever hold my peace. "I..we looked happy. We were in front of the grand oak tree in my backyard. There was a ring on my finger, but I can't remember ever being engaged. I don't recognize the man."

She listens intently, her expression kind and understanding. "It's okay to feel confused," she says, honestly. "Our minds can play tricks on us, especially after experiencing trauma. The fact that you found the photograph suggests that he played a significant role in your life, even if you cannot remember him now. Can you recall any other specific emotions or sensations tied to that photograph?"

"Nothing that's worth noting," I say, struggling to recall any other details about the photograph. But a scent seems familiar, it takes over my senses. I furrow my brows together as I look around at the paintings on the walls. "For some reason, I keep thinking of cigarette smoke and cologne."

The odor conjures flashes of recollection that dance at the edges of my mind. Was it the aroma of the room we stood in together? Or was it the distinct smell that lingered on him, surrounding us as we embraced? I can't say for certain. The pieces are too fractured, resembling a puzzle that has been scrambled into oblivion. But it's too damn familiar to go unnoticed.

I can't shake the feeling that I must remember. This person must have been significant to me. Someone that was a part of my life that I once knew, a person that I failed to remember after all these years. Memories of mine that make no sense, the faceless people, and the lives I've intertwined with. It has to mean something. But then, a name comes to the surface. A name that speaks itself into existence and fills another void in my soul.

"Blake," I murmur, the gears start turning in my mind. My eyes go wide. "Blake Fitzgerald."

a/n - ooooooo avalon starts to remember a mr. blake fitzgerald... will he show up? will he haunt her? you'll have to stay tuned! i hope you all enjoy this chapter :))) let me know what you think!! -k