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The apartment was small, barely a legal space, but it was his. Peter Parker had an air mattress in the corner, a desk salvaged from a dumpster, and a mini-fridge that hummed loudly enough to be a companion.
It had been three weeks since the final spell had been cast—the spell that saved the Multiverse by making everyone, everywhere, forget Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man, just Peter.
He sat on the floor, leaning against a cold radiator, meticulously patching a tear in his new, homemade suit. It was a tedious task, but the focus was a welcome distraction from the deafening silence of his life.
Grief was a constant, sharp echo. It wasn't just the fact that people forgot him; it was the layers of loss the spell had codified into eternity.
He had walked past Aunt May’s apartment, stood on the sidewalk, and watched a new family move in. The pain was a physical squeeze in his chest, a fresh wound every time he thought of her gentle hand, her boundless love. She was gone, and no one would ever know he was her boy.
He had gone to the coffee shop where MJ worked. He saw her, laughing with Ned, her beautiful, bright eyes crinkling at the corners. He walked right up to the counter, pulled out a twenty, and started to tell her about the internship he was applying for—the one she’d encouraged him to get.
"Can I help you, sir?" she'd asked, her face polite, a blank slate where recognition should have been.
He paid for his coffee and walked away. He hadn't seen Ned since. The memory of their friendship—the shared secrets, the late-night LEGO sessions, the boundless belief in him—was his alone to carry.
The greatest burden wasn't the loneliness; it was the knowledge.
He knew who Tony Stark was. He knew that Pepper Potts raised a daughter in a secluded cabin. He knew that Captain America was an old man, and that Black Widow had sacrificed herself for the Soul Stone. He knew the Avengers, his family, the people who had loved and protected him unconditionally, were out there, and he could never knock on their door.
He had debated it a hundred times a day. Walk into Avengers Tower. Tell them the truth. Show them the suit.
But the moment he imagined seeing Happy Hogan's face—the kind, gruff man who had been a bridge between him and Tony—and knowing Happy would only see a strange, hopeful kid instead of the "little guy" he adored, Peter’s resolve broke.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't force them to listen to a story about a kid they didn't know, a kid they had once loved so much the memory would be a terrifying phantom in their minds. He saved the world, and the price was his existence. He had to honor that sacrifice.
He finished the patch on the suit, testing the strength of the new stitching. He pulled on the mask. The identity of Spider-Man was the only thing the universe had not erased.
The mask wasn't a disguise; it was his last remaining anchor. When he wore it, he wasn't the grieving, invisible orphan. He was the protector. He was responsible.
He stood up, looking at the city lights.
"Okay, May," he whispered, a tear finally tracking a path through the grime on his cheek. "Okay, Mr. Stark. Okay, MJ."
He wouldn't wallow. He would keep going. He would get a real job. He would go back to college. He would pay rent. And every night, he would swing high above the city, carrying the collective memory of every person who had loved him, transforming that sorrow into pure, selfless action.
He swung out the broken window and soared into the cold night air, the wind rushing past him, chasing away the silence. He was alone, but he was still Spider-Man. And that was enough.