I stand at the edge of the gathered mourners, collar turned up against the damp. The black umbrella in my hand does little against the wind that whips the rain sideways, and I feel the cold seep through my coat, settling into my bones.

Ahead, a cluster of black-clad figures huddles around an open grave. The priest's voice carries over the wind, thin and reedy, but the words blur together—dust to dust, ashes to ashes. I've heard them too many times before.

At the front of the crowd, I can just make out the back of a small, blond head. Steve Rogers stands stiff as a board, his thin shoulders squared like he's bracing for a blow. He's twelve years old, and he's already learned how to stand at funerals.

Beside him, a woman in a worn black dress and a hat with a faded veil clutches his hand. Sarah Rogers. Her other hand grips a handkerchief so tight her knuckles are white.

And then there's Bucky.

He's a few steps back from the graveside, separate from the cluster of adults. His good suit—the one he got for his confirmation—hangs on him a little loose now, like he's grown into a different shape than the tailor expected. His hair is dark and slicked back, but a few strands have escaped, plastered to his forehead by the rain.

He's not crying. He's just staring at the coffin as it's lowered into the ground, his jaw set, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

The priest says something I don't catch, and the crowd murmurs. A woman sobs. Sarah Rogers sways, and Steve's free arm goes around her waist, steadying her with a grip that seems too strong for a boy his size.

The rain keeps falling.

The coffin keeps lowering.

And Bucky Barnes, fifteen years old, watches his parents disappear into the earth without making a sound.