~1951~

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

NEW YORK CITY
Two years after the ocean took her brother.

The smell of apple pie still lingered in the air. Evelyn Rogers sat on the worn couch, her son curled in her lap, asleep. Her husband hummed in the kitchen, scraping plates clean with a casual ease that came only from men who had survived the war and managed, somehow, to move on.

Evelyn hadn't moved on.

The gramophone in the corner clicked softly as the record ended. She reached down to stroke her son's red-blond curls, heart full and empty all at once.

Then—the doorbell rang.

She blinked. Her husband called out without turning "You got it, Evie?"

"Yeah," she said sweetly. Then, quieter, to herself "God help me if it's more church folks..."

She opened the front door and froze.

Standing on her porch in the early evening light were Peggy Carter and Howard Stark.

Her stomach twisted. Her smile dropped.

From the kitchen "Who is it, honey?"

She turned her head and called back, sugar-sweet "Just the newspaper!"

Then she stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.

Her eyes went ice cold.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed. "You don't get to knock on my door like we're friends. Not after what you did."

Peggy held her ground. Her face was somber, but her lips curled ever so slightly.
"We need to see it."

Howard nodded. "You've been working on something. We want to help."

Evelyn's jaw clenched. She laughed humorless, bitter. "Help?" she repeated. "You mean like how you 'helped' Steve disappear?"

"Evie—"

"No," she cut in. "You wait here."

Without another word, she turned and went back inside. She didn't kiss her husband. Didn't say goodbye. She just grabbed her coat and keys and walked out the back door.

An hour later, they were parked outside the house on Cherry Street.

The Rogers house. Empty since '45.

She hadn't come back here in years.

Inside, dust coated the furniture, memories lingering like ghosts. Steve's room was still half-painted. Her mother's record collection untouched.

She said nothing as she led Peggy and Howard down to the basement—where it waited.

The lab was primitive by Stark standards, but alive. Old war tech, scientific journals, chemistry gear... and something unnatural.

Floating in the center of a cracked containment box was a purple stone, glowing faintly, pulsing with eerie light. Wires were rigged from the stone to a device strapped to the wall—a conduit, fused with vibranium and copper.

Howard's brow furrowed. "What is that?"

Evelyn's voice was cold steel.

"A gift from the wreckage near the Belgian front. Came in with a collapsed tunnel. I think it's alien. Or cosmic. I don't care. It's powerful."

Peggy stepped forward carefully. "Evie... what are you trying to do?"

"Undo the crash." Her hands trembled, but her voice didn't. "Reverse time. Find him. Pull the ocean out of the way if I have to."

"You think this stone can change time?" Howard asked skeptically.

"I know it can. It shows me pieces. Flashes. I see Steve. I hear him." Her eyes shimmered. "It wants to help me."

Peggy and Howard shared a look.

Then they pulled their guns.

Evelyn barely had time to gasp before Howard shot the conduit, sparks flying as energy whined. Peggy fired next, hitting the containment box. The stone let out a shriek of light.

"You don't get it—" Evelyn screamed, lunging forward. "You don't touch this!"

Howard shouted, "We want him back too, Evie! But not like this. You'll tear open something none of us can fix!"

The lab ignited in chaos.

Evelyn grabbed the stone and the bracer she'd built to harness it. Energy surged through her arm like liquid fire. It burned. But she ran—God, she ran.

Up the stairs. Out the door. Into the streets.

They didn't follow.

She made it four blocks before she collapsed behind an old war memorial.

She couldn't breathe. Her skin blistered. Her mind raced.

But she still had the stone. Still had a chance.

With trembling fingers, she slid the bracer into place, locking the purple crystal in.

The world around her bent.

Reality hiccuped.

She smiled. Just a little.

"I'm coming, Stevie," she whispered.

Then the power consumed her.

A scream echoed through the void as her body burned from the inside out—bones disintegrating, memories fracturing, soul detaching. Her physical form collapsed into ash and light.

But her will—her purpose—held.

Some part of her refused to let go.

Even in death, she had one mission left.

Protect Steve. Bring him home.

And that part of her drifted—waiting.

Decades later, in a girl named Amara Lewis, that purpose would finally awaken again.

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

~2011~

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

WASHINGTON D.C
The sun had already started to dip behind the Jefferson Memorial, casting long golden beams across the National Mall. Tourists wandered with ice cream cones, laughing. Flags flapped lazily in the humid air. A trumpet player in front of the Lincoln Memorial let the first low notes of America the Beautiful echo off the marble.

But for Amara Lewis, everything felt off.

She sat cross-legged under a tree outside the Columbian College of Arts & Sciences, sketchbook in her lap, mechanical pencil tucked between her fingers. Her professor had assigned a comparative piece for summer workshop — "History and Self: Reflections of the Past in Contemporary Portraiture." She was supposed to pick a historical photo and reinterpret it through a modern lens.

Except she wasn't drawing the image she'd chosen.

She didn't know what she was drawing at all.

She blinked, stared down at the page.

A man. Blond. His eyes serious and soft. Behind him—warplanes. Sandbags. A woman beside him, holding his arm, blurry but there. Her posture was firm. Protective. Familiar.

Amara blinked harder. Had she seen this before?

The sound of children laughing snapped her out of it. She tore the page out, crumpled it, stuffed it into her bag.

Get a grip.

She wiped sweat from her brow and reached for her water bottle, then stopped.

The air around her had shifted.

Not the weather — the weight. Like the second before a lightning strike. Like a presence brushing against her spine.

And then—

Crack.

A flash behind her eyes.

A tearing sound in her chest.

Her body arched suddenly, fingers splaying as if seized by invisible wires. Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came out. Just heat. Searing, ancient heat—like she'd swallowed the sun.

FLASH.

She was on the floor of a hospital—but it wasn't a hospital she knew. Metal cots. Nurses screaming. A man with half his leg gone yelling in German. The smell of iodine and blood and gunpowder.

FLASH.

Running down a hallway, boots echoing. Hands wrapped around bandages soaked red. "He's not gone! He's not!"

FLASH.

Steve. Her brother.

Her brother?

Her mind screamed — what is happening?

And then — her eyes snapped open.

She was still under the tree.

Breathing hard. Drenched in sweat.

People were walking past like nothing had happened.

She checked her phone. It was still May 4th. Still 2011.

But something inside her had moved. Shifted. Split.

And somewhere, in a secret SHIELD facility in New York, Steve Rogers opened his eyes for the first time in seventy years.

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

She didn't call anyone. She didn't go to the ER. How could she explain that she'd lost time under a tree and hallucinated war scenes from a life that wasn't hers?

She took a cold shower. Drank two bottles of water. Sat cross-legged on her bed staring at the wall.

She hadn't eaten.

Every time she tried to close her eyes, her body felt like it didn't belong to her anymore. Like she was a guest in her own skin.

Something was pressing outward from inside her ribs. Like a second heartbeat. Not constant — but there.

She turned on the lamp. Grabbed her sketchbook again. Flipped to a blank page.

Her hand moved without her permission.

In four minutes, she'd drawn a perfect medical diagram of a 1940s blood transfusion unit. Labeled in crisp cursive. With a Red Cross stamp in the corner.

She stared at it. Breath gone.

She didn't know how she knew any of it.

She flipped to the next page. Started drawing again, faster this time, driven.

A badge.

ARMY NURSE CORPS.

Name: Rogers, Evelyn M.
Rank: Lieutenant
Stationed: 107th Evacuation Hospital, Belgium Sector.

Who the hell is Evelyn Rogers?

Amara dropped the sketchbook like it had burned her. Backed away from it. Her chest tightened. Her mouth was dry.

Her reflection in the mirror — it wasn't different, but it felt different.

She leaned in.

"Hello?" she whispered, feeling stupid.

No answer.

Just her own wide eyes. Green and too bright.

She sat down hard on the bed, the weight of it finally hitting her.

Something had entered her. Something old. Grieving. Angry.

And whoever this Evelyn was... she wasn't gone.

That night, Amara didn't sleep.

She descended.

Into noise and war. Fire and metal. Screaming.

And a soft voice behind it all, whispering like a prayer through bloodied lips.
"You have to save him."

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

NEW YORK
Steve Rogers stood in the middle of the room like a ghost dragged into the light.

Nick Fury was talking. Something about how long he'd been asleep. How the war was over. How the world had changed.

But Steve's voice was far away from all of it. He heard only the echo of one thought in his mind.

Evie.

He whispered it out loud before he could stop himself.

Nick paused. "What did you say?"

Steve looked down. Eyes full of dust and memory.

"My sister," he said. "She was older. I never saw her again after I got on that plane."

"Evelyn Rogers killed herself in 1951." Nick spoke with regret but still using his serious tone. Steve sat up straight breathing heavily and with shaky hands covered his face. "No.."

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

FIRST TIME WRITING A MARVEL FANFIC. IM OPENED TO TIPS IF YOU ALL WANT TO GIVE ME. HAD THIS CRAZY IDEA AND IDK IF IT WILL
BE CATCHY.
LAURA WILL GET HER PROLOGUE BEFORE HOMECOMING:))
I REALLY HOPE YOU WILL LIKE THIS<333
Love y'all and stay safe❤️