To the world, it's just another winter day. The sky is lined with silver, sprinkling snow softly onto the busy streets of New York City. But to Steve Rogers, it isn't just an ordinary day.

Because seventy years ago, Bucky Barnes died.

He visits the building where they used to room together (it's all renovated now, and just about unrecognizable from the dump it used to be). He thinks about Bucky's promise that one day they'd have enough money to move to a better place, an apartment that wasn't boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter and would have a goddamn furnace that actually worked so Steve wouldn't fall sick all the time.

But that day never came to pass.

He passes by the plaza where the Future Expo was held, so many years ago, on the last day before Sergeant James Barnes shipped out to England. It's empty now, but Steve can still see the exhilarated crowds like it was yesterday, as though they were ghostly afterimages left over on a photograph. He remembers Bucky's "Don't do anything stupid until I get back," so confident that he would return from the war unscathed and they would continue on as they always had. He remembers the rough cloth of Bucky's service uniform scratching his cheek as they hugged farewell.

It was the last time they did so before Bucky fell off that train.

Steve goes down by the docks and looks down at the little snowflakes melting as they hit the dark water, and he thinks about Bucky's death. The pure terror that had consumed Bucky's eyes, the scream of fear that still kept Steve awake at night—because Bucky had always been fearless, but Steve saw in that moment that Bucky was terrified of death. Steve thinks about that icy ravine Bucky had fallen into, and how his body had probably sunk to the bottom of the river, never to be recovered. There was no one to mourn Bucky's death except him, no family or other close friends. All this time, and Steve still blames himself, still feels the guilt that burns in his chest like a hot brand. If only he'd reached a little further, or been a little more careful on the mission…

What kills Steve most of all is that he never got to say goodbye.

He stops by one of the bars Bucky used to drag him to. Miraculously, the bar is still there. He peers through the glass at the people seated inside, chattering over their drinks, and thinks about how Bucky once vowed (while slightly drunk) to make Steve the godfather of his children. At the time, Steve only laughed, because he couldn't imagine Bucky settling down and becoming a father.

But he regrets it now, because there never were any children, no little Barnes or miniature Buckys running around for Steve to watch over fondly.

He steps inside and orders a drink, even though he knows there's no point because he can't get drunk. He thinks about the many, many nights he left with Bucky's arm around his shoulder, while Bucky was rhapsodizing about how they'd probably still be drinking buddies even when their hair had gone white and they had grandkids.

He'd dismissed Bucky's words at the time as drunkenly sentimental rambling, but now he wishes so much that they had been true. He wishes they could've become old men together, sitting at that bar and reminiscing about their golden years and laughing at the trouble they'd gotten into when they were young and reckless.

Steve tips his glass of scotch down his throat. It leaves a burning taste, but it doesn't go to his head the same way it used to, before the serum. He swallows hard, past a burning lump of disappointment. Everyone around him is laughing, smiling, chatting without a care in the world.

But everywhere Steve turns, he's haunted by ghosts.