Cursed Realities

12. Silent Angle

The air in the room felt heavy with grief as Natasha found herself lying in the dimly lit space, her tear-streaked face illuminated by a solitary source of light. The room seemed to echo with the echoes of her sobbing, the weight of despair pressing down on her.

Dr. Strange sat nearby, his countenance marked by a solemnity that mirrored the gravity of the situation. Natasha, in her shattered state, managed to utter a shaky question, her voice laced with pain, "How? How is it possible? He didn't die in water... a truck..."

Her words trailed off into a broken sob, the memory of the brutal events replaying in her mind like a haunting nightmare.

In response, Dr. Strange sighed, his gaze fixed on Natasha's trembling form. "He sank into water," he revealed, and Natasha's tears flowed even more freely.

The discrepancy between her vivid memory of the truck and the cosmic truth confounded her, leaving her grappling with the cruelty of the multiverse.

Unable to shake off the heart-wrenching image of Steve's lifeless body being callously thrown into the water, Natasha looked up at the cosmic supreme, seeking some semblance of understanding. "How am I supposed to know his end of time?" she implored, the desperation evident in her voice.

Dr. Strange, ever composed, calmly responded, "Inspect your surroundings. You'll find clues." His words hung in the air, leaving Natasha to ponder their significance. As he stood up and walked toward her, he extended his hand. Natasha, grasping onto the offered lifeline, felt a sense of determination rising within her.

With a subtle gesture, Dr. Strange summoned another portal, its ethereal glow beckoning them forward. "Let's go," he urged, the swirling vortex drawing them into the cosmic unknown.

Natasha's eyes fluttered open, disoriented by the abrupt honk that echoed through her consciousness. The world came into focus, and she found herself seated in a car, Maria Hill at the wheel. Confusion etched her features as Maria greeted her, "Romanoff."

The mention of her name pulled Natasha from the haze of bewilderment, and she tried to make sense of the situation. Maria, seemingly unfazed, questioned, "Didn't you sleep well last night?" 

Natasha, still grappling with the reality of the moment, stammered in response, "I'm not feeling so good."

Maria offered a reassuring smile, "Why? Your shift finished early." 

The word 'shift' hung in the air, a puzzle piece Natasha couldn't place. She looked to her friend for clarification, "Shift?" 

Maria shook her head with a bemused expression, "You kidding? Let's go; we're already late."

Stepping out of the car, Natasha tried to piece together the fragments of her surroundings. They entered a bustling coffee shop, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air.

The hum of conversation and the clinking of cups filled the space as customers lined up at the counter. A middle-aged woman, Mrs. Stephenson, shot them a disapproving glance, "You girls are late!" 

Maria swiftly apologized, "Sorry, Mrs. Stephenson," and Natasha nodded, still grappling with the disconcerting sense of displacement.

Following Maria through the café, Natasha observed the routine familiarity of the environment. The baristas efficiently worked the espresso machine, and the pastry display beckoned with tempting treats.

It slowly dawned on Natasha – she worked here. This café, with its specific details and Mrs. Stephenson's stern rebuke, was now a part of her reality.

As they navigated through the morning rush, Maria took her position behind the counter, effortlessly slipping into the rhythm of the café. Natasha, like an observer in her own life, found herself donning an apron and standing beside Maria. The barista duties, once foreign, now felt oddly familiar.