Winter's Neighbor

Chapter One

The snap changed everything. It was like the world cracked in half and we were left to try and patch it back together. I was living with my parents in Virginia when it happened. I was going to New York soon for graduate school, I had a stable boyfriend for the first time ever, things were looking up.

One night I fell asleep planning to go to the beach with my parents and friends the next day. The next thing I knew I was waking up in a different bed and the people staring down at me were not my parents. In fact, I didn't know them at all. I sat up, shaking, and asked why they were in my house. They shared a look. This was not my house anymore.

They let me stay with them for a few weeks anyway. Sheila and John. They'd bought the house two years ago after my parents died. I'd been an only child, so there was no one to leave it to. They were good people. Kind and generous to me even though I was a total stranger. What other choice was there? Other than throwing me out onto the street without a penny to my name or anywhere to go.

The return made things... complicated. As if the snap itself wasn't complicated, the world had to adjust to billions of people appearing in the literal blink of an eye. Families and loved ones had moved on. Or died, in my parents' case. My once-boyfriend had moved across the country and gotten married.

The government gave me a stipend to get me back on my feet and, even though Sheila and John invited me to stay, I knew I had to leave. It wasn't home anymore. Nowhere was home anymore. So I went to New York like I'd always planned and got a small studio in a decent enough building. I waited for my school to decide if they'd allow me back in. After all, I was still the same person, the same age, same everything as when I'd applied... just five years later.

I tried to be okay. Tried to live. But nothing felt real or right no matter what I did. The support groups helped sometimes, but it was painful to hear from people returning to their lives, to their families, when I had no one. I'd lie awake in my apartment until the sunrise, listening to sirens bleed into the chirping of birds. I'd eat dry cereal because I always forgot to buy milk. I'd try to read and get distracted by nothing. It was a life, technically.

After a few months of sitting in my bed every day I realized I could see my ribs. I'd get winded just walking up the stairs. Turns out you can't exclusively live on cereal and vodka. Even my government assigned therapist, who I got to see once a month and who seemed mostly interested in getting me out of her office as quickly as possible, noticed that I looked like shit. She helped me make a list of goals, one of which was to cook at least one meal a day. A balanced meal, she insisted, not peanut butter straight out of the jar or a frozen pan of mac and cheese.

So I started grocery shopping at the bodega down the street. The first time I bought a bag of real food instead of my usual cheerios and bottle of Ketel One, they looked at me funny. I didn't want to admit it, but the cooking did help. It gave me something to do at least. It was even a little fun sometimes. My mom's recipe book was lost to the snap, probably ended up in a landfill. But I did my best to recreate her favorite dishes from memory so I had something to remind me of home.

Going out more than once a week meant I actually saw people. I had so many neighbors I'd never seen until then. The woman across the hall who had three kids, the elderly couple and their cat one the bottom floor, always watching from their doorway, and the man one floor above who always wore black gloves and a hooded leather jacket. He walked slowly, with purpose, head down, shoulders hunched.

A couple of months after I started cooking, my grocery bag ripped on the way home. I cursed and balanced the bundle of ragged paper bag and precarious vegetables as I ran the rest of the block and shouldered my way through the door. I usually took the stairs instead of the ancient elevator that smelled of old curry and always rattled, but there was no way I'd be walking three flights with a broken bag.

The door was just sliding shut as I burst into the lobby and I groaned, shouting "hold the elevator," as I wobbled forward.

A hand emerged between the nearly closed doors and they bounced back open. I sighed in relief, rushing into the elevator and leaning against the wall, holding my carrots in place with my chin. "Thank you so much." I mumbled awkwardly.

"Anytime," a low, even voice replied.

I looked up finally and realized it was Mr. Leather-Jacket from upstairs. I'd never been this close to him, but now I could see his features. Serious, dark gray-blue eyes, broad shoulders, stubble over a hard jawline, and a deep line between his bushy eyebrows. Some may have found him intimidating, but he looked at me with kindness in his eyes. He stood slightly uncomfortably, hands buried deep in his pockets.

"I'm Sarah," I said, though I wasn't sure why I spoke up at all. "You're on four, right?"

"Bucky." He gave me a half smile. "Yeah. And you're on three?"

"That's me." I nodded, trying to ignore the carrot tops tickling my cheek. I was vaguely surprised that he'd noticed me at all, considering how anti-social I'd been.

He pressed the button for my floor before leaning back against the wall and looking up at the ticker showing which floor we were on as it dragged slowly upward. The elevator shuddered as it always did and I barely saved a tomato from hitting the floor. A loud screech came from the cables above as we ground to a stop at my floor and I cringed, edging toward the doors and out into the hall, managing a glance back at Bucky before the elevator moved on. He was watching me with a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth.

As I chopped vegetables in my little kitchen, I found myself smiling at nothing in particular. Bucky. Odd name, but I liked it. Sounded like an old action star or something, though he couldn't have been a day over 37. I laughed at myself for even thinking about it and turned the volume up on my phone until the little speakers buzzed, letting the cheerful beat of "Sara" by Stevie Nicks pull me around the kitchen as my food began coming together.

~

Bucky pushed into his apartment and locked the door behind him, crossing to sit on the single chair in his living room. Another long day of bullshit. You'd think with five years to prepare, the government would've been able to make arrangements for anyone who might return. But no. They could barely function, let alone excel at helping the country recover. People like him weren't exactly a priority right now either.

A faint song drifted up from below and Bucky cocked his head, trying to make out the words. He slowly lay down on the floor, pressing his ear to the wood and closing his eyes. A woman sang along with the music and her footsteps moved in time. He grinned, wondering if it was the woman from the elevator....Sarah, and lay there listening until the music changed to a softer song and the footsteps stilled, and he let himself drift off to sleep without even looking for a blanket.