My gaze sharpens for a moment at that brief glimpse into a future I missed. I never had Bucky over to the house, not before I- apparently- died. It's a depressing prospect, that the circumstances for Bucky seeing the place could be as innocent as his coming over once I- again, apparently- came back, or that it could have happened in the interim.

"I'll take a look," I tell him, scanning the lush rise of the island's trees, the mountain not so far off.

"Where did you set up shop?"