The young couple sitting on the nearby bench bolted in fright at Steve's sudden movement. Not far away, a young man wearing headphones continued bobbing his head to the music, completely oblivious to what had just happened.
"I—I'm sorry," Steve said awkwardly as he withdrew his hand. "I thought…"
"It's… it's okay," Clara said softly. "I just wanted to ask you to move over a little."
She rubbed her neck unconsciously.
That hand was huge.
For a moment, Clara genuinely felt that her neck could have been snapped effortlessly.
Only then did Steve realize he was sitting in the middle of a three-seater bench. His broad build left almost no usable space on either side.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Steve quickly apologized, shifting his body to make room.
To be honest, Clara had originally wanted to sit on the empty bench nearby. But she was a little afraid of the tall, powerfully built man in front of her. Since he had already moved aside on his own, refusing would feel rude.
Steve could sense the girl's fear, and it made him uneasy. He had no idea how to interact with children.
"I'm really sorry about earlier," he said again. "I thought an enemy had appeared. Just a few months ago, I was still on the battlefield."
"You're a soldier?" Clara asked.
"Yes," Steve nodded. "I am."
Hearing that, Clara visibly relaxed.
"I understand," she said gently. "When someone comes from a place full of gunfire into a peaceful world, it takes time to adjust. There's something called post-war—"
She frowned slightly, eyes drifting upward as she tried to recall the word, as if the answer were written somewhere in the sky.
"Post-traumatic stress disorder," Steve supplied.
"Yes! That's it!" Clara nodded vigorously, then asked carefully, "You don't… have that, do you?"
She'd heard it could cause violent tendencies.
"No, I don't," Steve said quickly. "I'm just… not used to this life yet. The world changed too fast for me."
"That's okay," Clara said earnestly. "You just need to go out more, walk around, and give yourself some time. Time can soften everything—even the wounds left by war."
Steve was stunned.
Those words shouldn't have come from a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl.
"You're very young," he said slowly, "but you understand a lot."
"Well… I like reading," Clara replied modestly.
Steve almost asked what kind of books she read, but then thought better of it. He wasn't her parent—he had no right to pry.
An awkward silence fell between them.
"Um… where did you fight?" Clara asked after a moment. "Vietnam? Myanmar? Iraq?"
She wracked her brain, trying to recall the countries currently at war.
Steve noticed that every time she thought deeply, her eyes drifted upward again.
"…More or less all of those," he replied vaguely.
He couldn't very well say World War II and Nazi Germany—it sounded like a tall tale.
"Wow!" Clara's eyes widened. "Then you must be a battle-hardened veteran!"
"And what good does that do?" Steve laughed bitterly. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do with my life now."
"How could it be useless?" Clara said seriously. "You could be a private bodyguard, a security officer, a firefighter… If you have a skill, there are even more options!"
"Before I enlisted, I was an art student," Steve said. "I'm better at drawing."
"Then you could become a comic artist!" Clara said excitedly. "Draw your experiences and let comic fans see them! You could even hold an art exhibition—if you meet the right people. Or become an art teacher! A teacher who can draw, fight, and is handsome? Your students would be completely obsessed with you!"
Steve couldn't help it—he laughed out loud.
"In any case," Clara said, bending down and pulling a paper sunflower from her basket, handing it to him, "smile more, Mr. Soldier. The sun is so bright—if you keep frowning, even the sunlight will dim."
"Th-thank you," Steve said, accepting the flower with some surprise. "It's very lifelike."
"This is just my hobby," Clara said with a smile. "I should head home now. Goodbye, Mr. Soldier."
"Goodbye…" Steve hesitated. "What's your name?"
"My name is Clara. Clara Johnson."
"Then… goodbye, Clara."
She walked a few steps away, then turned back.
"Mr. Soldier, has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like Captain America? Honestly, the actor in that new Captain America movie doesn't look as much like Steve Rogers as you do. You should try auditioning—you might be even more convincing than him!"
Steve watched her disappear from view, utterly dumbfounded.
"Playing… myself," he murmured.
"That's actually not a bad idea."
—
Time quietly drifted toward May.
The day Clara had been eagerly waiting for was almost here.
A month earlier, announcements had appeared around the Midtown: a well-known philanthropist, Michael Thompson, had invited a celebrated heritage folk percussion troupe to perform.
The performance was scheduled for Saturday, May 1st.
Clara had never seen a performance like this before—not now, not even in her previous life. Lately, everything felt new to her, even things she'd never once been interested in.
The performance would run from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.
Clara had planned to arrive at ten in the morning, watch until three or four in the afternoon, then head home.
But—
Ms. Daisy suddenly announced that the class would be going on a museum field trip that Saturday.
Clara's plan collapsed instantly.
The museum visit wouldn't end until at least three in the afternoon. From there, getting to Midtown would take another two hours by bus. Going back and forth would mean returning home well past midnight.
After Ms. Daisy left, Clara slumped forward and rested her head on her desk, completely deflated.
"What's wrong, Clara?" her deskmate asked. "Do you have a headache?"
Her desk neighbor was Jeresia Jonez. Her mother was a professor, and her father worked in a local government agency.
Jeresia had delicate East Asian features paired with large, clear green eyes. Fair-skinned and adorable now, she was clearly destined to become a great beauty when she grew up.
After hearing Clara's dilemma, Jeresia waved it off confidently.
"No problem at all. After we get back from the museum, I'll ask my mom to drive us to Midtown. We can come back together after the performance."
"Really?" Clara's eyes lit up. "Jeresia, won't that trouble your mom too much?"
"Not at all," Jeresia said cheerfully. "She mentioned just a few days ago that she wanted to take me to see the performance anyway. Both my parents love that kind of thing."
"Thank you so much, Jeresia! You're really my best friend!"
"Of course!" Jeresia said, then suddenly grinned. "But… as your best friend, you'll have to let me copy your math homework too!"
She snatched Clara's math notebook without hesitation. After all, Clara had the best math grades in the entire class.
Clara was left speechless.
No matter the world—
Deskmates were exactly the same.
--------------
T/N:
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