Chapter Text
I haven't slept in two weeks. Two weeks since she left. And I'm still searching for something I can't find: my son.
At night I replay the conversation in my head. I see her in every corner of the penthouse, every corner seems to hold fragments of what Harry told me. I can hear her voice, unsure, shaky, telling me that she's not Harry anymore. That I must now call her... Harriet.
I don't know when I started screaming. I know that the reaction I had wasn't supportive, or understanding. My words... it wasn't anything a father should say to his child—his daughter—at such a vulnerable time. Fury took over me; a fury that now weighs on me more than I ever imagined. I can only remember how she left. Without looking back. I left her alone, unprotected. And now I've been searching for two weeks without rest.
This morning I made a decision: I would go wherever it took to find her. I've exhausted my contacts and calls, and pride stopped mattering days ago. I first went to Gwen Stacy's house, thinking that perhaps she was sheltering there. But the sweet girl doesn't know anything about Harriet, and her confused expression almost draws an apology from me.
I feel like a cornered animal when I take the last option. The only hope I have left. The Parker house.
When I arrive, the neighborhood seems as alien to me as it always has been, but something pushes me to continue on. I knock on the door and May Parker greets me, as kind and serene as ever, although her expression changes when she notices the desperation on my face.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker. I don't want to bother you, but... is Peter home?"
"Of course, Norman. Come in, come in."
Peter appears in the living room. At first he seems surprised to see me, and then that surprise turns into something I can't quite place. Perhaps a mix of caution and curiosity.
"Peter," I say more harshly than I should, "have you seen Harry lately?"
His face is scrunched up, his eyes wide open. He doesn't seem to know what I'm talking about, and his expression isn't that of someone who wants to hide something. It's that of someone who has just discovered something terrifying.
"Harry's missing?" he says quietly, as if saying it would materialize a new kind of tragedy.
I explain, each word filling me with a shame I've never felt in my life. My hands shake as I remember how he left after our fight. I'm not Norman Osborn now, the powerful and ruthless tycoon. No. I'm just a broken man now, trying to find the one he loves the most and has unwittingly lost.
Peter looks at me. At first, I think he's going to laugh at me, or even reproach me. But no. His gaze is serene, and for a moment, I see something that makes me uncomfortable: empathy. That empathy disarms me, and in an outburst I never thought possible, the words come out like an unstoppable torrent.
"She told me that… she wants to be called Harriet, "I manage to stammer, feeling the word catch in my throat. "She left… after we argued."
Peter nods silently. He doesn't try to say anything, and though it pains me to admit it, it feels like a relief. I don't need any more words of disapproval or comfort. All I want is to find my daughter.