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until tonight, dead people have remained dead. you have stood beside open caskets, walked through cemeteries after dark, and slept in buildings old enough to have collected more than one tragedy. nothing has ever followed you home. no voice has spoken from an empty room, and no face has appeared where the living cannot stand.
the first dead person you see is standing beneath a broken streetlight in queens.
you do not know she is dead at first.
the city has spent the evening behaving strangely. clouds twist above the rooftops despite the absence of wind, gathering around a violet wound in the sky that appears and disappears whenever lightning moves behind it. car alarms begin without reason. streetlights flicker in uneven succession. somewhere farther downtown, people shout at something you cannot see.
then the world gives one final, violent shudder.
the light above you bursts. glass scatters across the sidewalk, and every sound in the city seems to fall away at once.
you stop beneath the awning of a closed laundromat, one hand pressed against the brick wall while pain drives itself through the center of your skull. it is not a headache. headaches belong inside the body. this feels like something entering from beyond it, forcing its way through bone and thought until your knees nearly buckle.
a woman stands across the street when you open your eyes.
she wears dark slacks and a green coat unsuitable for the cold. her hair rests neatly against her shoulders, untouched by the damp wind pushing litter along the curb. people pass through the crosswalk between you, but none of them look toward her.
the woman is staring directly at you.
then, a taxi moves through her body.
you stumble backward hard enough to strike the laundromat window. the glass rattles inside its frame while the cab continues down the street, red taillights disappearing through the rain.
your first thought is exhaustion. your second is a concussion, though nothing has struck you except the pain still pulsing behind your eyes. you drag your phone from your pocket and point the camera across the street. the screen shows wet pavement, passing umbrellas, and an empty stretch of sidewalk where the woman should be. when you lower it, she is still there.
you raise the phone again, then lower it. the result does not change: empty screen, dead woman.
the woman remains where she is.
she looks down at herself, then at the road where the taxi passed. when she lifts her face again, relief and fear move across it in equal measure.
“you can see me,” she says.
her voice reaches you without crossing the distance. it is not loud, but it settles clearly beside your ear, as though she stands close enough to whisper.
you turn and walk away.
the woman follows.
she does not hurry. her shoes make no sound against the wet pavement, and the crowd parts around her without knowing why. every time you glance over your shoulder, she is several steps behind you, watching with the careful concern of someone approaching a frightened animal.
“i’m sorry,” she says after the third block. “i know this is a lot.”
you stop beneath the harsh white lights of a corner pharmacy. customers move behind the windows, comparing cold medicine and birthday cards while a cashier leans against the counter with her attention fixed on her phone. the ordinary scene should steady you.
it doesn’t.
“you’re dead,” you say quietly.
the woman’s expression softens. “yes.”
“and i’m having some kind of breakdown.”
“maybe,” she admits. “but i’m still dead.”
you look toward the people passing around you. no one reacts to the conversation. a man carrying takeout nearly walks through the woman’s shoulder before shifting aside at the last moment, guided by an instinct he does not understand.
“what do you want?” you ask.
the woman glances toward the darkening sky. the strange clouds have begun to loosen, but threads of purple light remain tangled between them.
“i need to find someone,” she says.
you fold your arms across your chest, more to contain their trembling than to protect yourself from the cold. “then haunt someone else.”
“i’ve tried.” grief draws something tired through her face. “no one else can see me.”
the ache behind your eyes sharpens. you press your fingers against your temple, but the pain has already begun to settle deeper, becoming a pressure you suspect will never fully leave.
“who are you looking for?”
the woman looks at you for a long moment before answering.
“my nephew,” she says. “peter parker.”
the name should mean something. you feel that immediately.
it falls into your mind like a key dropped in an empty room, striking something hard before disappearing into darkness. there is an outline where recognition should be. a space shaped precisely for him, emptied so completely that even the absence feels deliberate.
you look toward the sky again.
“i don’t know anyone named peter parker.”
the woman’s mouth tightens. she does not look surprised.
“no,” she says softly. “i don’t think anyone does.”
—
her name is may.
you nearly go to an emergency room instead of home. you stand beneath the subway sign for almost a minute, trying to decide whether seeing one impossible woman counts as a neurological emergency, while may waits beside you without casting a shadow. in the end, you take her with you because she is the only person who looks as frightened by your new reality as you feel.
she follows you home because neither of you knows what else to do.
your apartment sits above a bakery that begins working before dawn, filling the building with the smell of yeast and sugar while you are still trying to sleep. the rooms are narrow and expensive, with pipes that knock whenever the upstairs neighbor showers and windows painted shut by three landlords’ worth of neglect.
may looks around the living room as though she has been invited.
“it’s nice,” she says.
you drop your keys into the ceramic bowl beside the door. “you don’t have to lie because you’re dead.”
“i’m not lying.” she walks toward the window, though her reflection does not appear in the dark glass. “it feels lived in.”
“that’s a polite way of saying cluttered.”
“peter’s room was worse.”
the name creates the same strange emptiness inside you. you pause beside the kitchen counter before forcing yourself to continue removing your wet coat.
“you remember him.”
may turns from the window. “of course i remember him.”
“but nobody else does.”
“i don’t know.” she looks down at her hands, examining fingers that pass faintly through one another whenever she stops concentrating. “i woke up tonight. not where i died. not anywhere, really. then there was this pull.”
“toward him?”
“toward the city.” she glances at you. “then toward you.”
you turn on every light before removing your coat. you check the carbon monoxide detector, take your temperature, and shine your phone’s flashlight into each pupil while may waits beside the kitchen table. everything is normal except for the dead woman watching you test whether your own mind has failed.
“has this ever happened before?” may asks, her attention following the thermometer when you set it beside the sink.
“never.” you fill the kettle because movement gives your hands something to do. “i’ve never seen a ghost. i’ve never heard anyone who wasn’t there. until tonight, i didn’t believe people could.”
may glances toward the second cup drying beside the sink. “you live alone?”
“you’re dead, not subtle.”
“sorry.”
the kettle begins to hiss. you switch it off before it whistles, suddenly unwilling to hear anything sharp. may looks down at her hands, examining fingers that pass faintly through one another whenever she stops concentrating.
“then something changed tonight,” she says.
“that isn’t an answer.”
“it’s the only one i have.”
you carry the tea toward the table. steam rises into your face, briefly obscuring her. when it clears, may is studying you with an expression that feels uncomfortably maternal.
“you should eat something,” she says.
you stare at her.
“you tracked down the only person in new york who can apparently see dead people, and your first concern is whether she ate dinner?”
“have you?”
you take a deliberate sip instead of answering.
may’s mouth twitches.
“that’s what i thought.”
she stays until morning.
she tells you about peter in fragments, careful at first, as though his life is something breakable. he is brilliant but stubborn. kind in ways that make him careless with himself. he loses track of meals when he is working. he says he is fine when he is bleeding. he carries guilt like other people carry wallets, always checking to make sure it is still there.
she does not tell you how she dies. you don’t ask.
when sunlight reaches the windows, may becomes transparent around the edges. fear moves through her before she can hide it.
“what’s happening?” you ask, rising so quickly that your chair scrapes against the floor.
“i don’t know.”
her outline flickers. for one terrible second, you see the kitchen through her chest. then she solidifies again, weaker but present.
“maybe daylight,” you say.
“maybe.”
“will you come back?”
may looks toward the window, then at the untouched second mug beside the sink.
“i hope so.”
she disappears before you can answer.
the apartment becomes painfully quiet without her.
you stand in the kitchen until the tea cools between your hands, staring at the empty chair and wondering how long it takes to begin missing someone who has already died.
you do not sleep. you call in sick before dawn, write down every detail you remember in case the woman and her name disappear with the pain, and spend the morning searching combinations of sudden hallucination, violet sky, and people no one else can see. every result tells you to contact a doctor. none explains why your phone camera could not see her.
by afternoon, the city looks ordinary enough that you almost convince yourself may was a stress response made convincing by fear. you leave the kitchen light on anyway.
—
may returns after sunset in the same chair from which she vanished. the sight of her makes you drop the spoon in your hand. relief arrives before fear, which frightens you almost as much as seeing her again.
by the end of the week, three more ghosts find you. none of them know peter, and none arrive gently enough for you to pretend the first night was an isolated break from reality.
a man from the building next door appears in the reflection of a grocery-store freezer and asks you to tell his wife where he hides the insurance paperwork. you scream, drop a jar of sauce, and turn to find him standing close enough that his face nearly touches yours. the employees who hurry over see only broken glass and you speaking to an empty aisle.
an elderly woman waits inside a subway car because she cannot remember which stop takes her home. a child follows you for six blocks without speaking before disappearing when his father walks unknowingly through the place where he stands. each time, you search the faces around you for someone else reacting. each time, you are the only one.
there is no switch. closing your eyes does not silence them, headphones do not soften their voices, and locked doors mean nothing to someone without a body. you begin sleeping with the kitchen light on and stop standing too close to mirrors.
you do not call yourself a medium. that sounds like a title for someone trained, or at least willing. you call it “the thing that started when the sky broke.”
you learn slowly, and badly, that seeing the dead does not mean you can save them.
some want messages delivered. some want absolution you cannot give. some do not know they are dead. others know and resent you for continuing to live.
may helps when she can.
she sits beside you after the angry ones leave. she reminds you to lock the windows even though you live on the fourth floor. she criticizes the contents of your refrigerator with increasing confidence.
“mustard isn’t a meal,” she tells you one evening.
you close the refrigerator door. “neither is air, but that seems to be working for you.”
may laughs.
it is the first time you hear the sound, and something inside your apartment changes with it. the room doesn’t become warmer. the lights don’t brighten. nothing visible shifts at all.
still, it feels less empty.
you begin looking for peter.
not because may asks every night, though she does. not because the name continues catching against the erased place inside your mind, though it does that too.
you search because may looks toward every dark-haired boy on the street. because she goes silent whenever an ambulance passes. because she stands beside your window each night and watches the rooftops as though she expects someone to fall from them.
the internet offers almost nothing. no social media. no public school records. no photographs preserved beneath the name. peter parker exists only in scattered bureaucratic traces: a birth certificate, an old address, an enrollment record that ends without explanation.
may reads over your shoulder while you search.
“that was our apartment,” she says when an address appears in queens.
you write it down.
the building has been repaired after what the landlord describes as extensive damage. another family lives there now. may stands on the sidewalk beneath her old window, staring upward while someone else’s curtains move in the afternoon light.
“he isn’t here,” she says.
“where would he go?”
may looks toward the intersection.
“somewhere cheap,” she replies. “somewhere he thinks nobody will notice him.”
it takes another month to find him.
you see peter parker for the first time in a cemetery.
snow gathers between the headstones in thin, uneven patches, preserved where the winter sun cannot reach. may walks several feet ahead of you, pulled along the narrow path with an urgency that makes her flicker whenever she moves too quickly.
then she stops.
a boy kneels beside her grave.
he wears a dark coat with a tear near one cuff. snow melts into his hair while he brushes dead leaves from the base of the stone with his bare hand. a backpack rests beside him, one strap repaired with black thread.
may releases a sound you have never heard from a ghost before.
it isn’t quite a sob. ghosts don’t need breath, but her grief seems to remember the shape of it.
“peter.”
he does not look up.
may crosses the remaining distance and kneels opposite him. her hand passes through his shoulder when she tries to touch him.
peter shivers.
his head lifts sharply, eyes moving through the cemetery before settling somewhere near you. instinct sends you behind the nearest oak, though you know he has already seen you.
may remains beside him.
“he’s so thin,” she whispers.
peter takes something from his coat pocket and places it near the headstone. a small paper bag from a bakery. the top has been folded carefully twice.
“i got the cherry one,” he says.
his voice barely carries across the snow.
may closes her eyes.
“you always said it was too sweet,” peter continues, looking down at the bag. “but you ate half of mine every time.”
you turn away.
whatever this is, it does not belong to you.
you retreat toward the cemetery gate while may stays behind. she returns to your apartment hours later, quieter than when she left.
“he saw you,” she says.
you look up from the book open across your lap. “i know.”
“he followed you.”
the words bring you to your feet.
“what?”
may moves toward the window. she points through the glass, down toward the opposite side of the street.
peter stands beneath the awning of the bakery.
he is looking up at your apartment.
—
you do not speak to him that night.
peter remains outside for eleven minutes before leaving. may counts every second while pretending not to.
afterward, she sits at your table and worries the cuff of her coat between fingers that cannot damage fabric.
“he thinks you followed him,” she says.
“technically, i did.”
“he’ll come back.”
“how do you know?”
may gives you a tired smile. “because i raised him.”
he comes back two days later.
you are carrying groceries upstairs when you find him waiting outside your apartment. his hands are pushed deep into the pockets of his coat, and his shoulders have drawn inward against the draft slipping through the hallway. the weak light above him flickers every few seconds, catching on the damp ends of his hair.
may stands at his right.
peter looks from you to the place where she waits. his attention catches on the way your gaze settles there before returning to him.
“you were at the cemetery,” he says.
you adjust the paper bag against your hip. the bottom has begun to tear beneath the weight of a carton of eggs and two cans of soup under them. “so were you.”
“were you following me?”
“no,” you scoff.
his gaze moves across your face with unsettling precision. you have the distinct impression of being catalogued: your breathing, your grip on the groceries, the distance between you and the stairs.
“who are you?” peter asks.
you shift the bag higher before the eggs can escape. “the person whose apartment you’re standing outside of, apparently.”
his brow pulls together, but he does not step away from the door. “that isn’t what i meant.”
“it’s the answer you’re getting.”
may smiles beside him, the first real smile you have seen from her since the cemetery.
“don’t,” you tell her.
peter stiffens. his eyes move toward the empty space at his side. “what?”
you look at him too quickly. “nothing.”
the word doesn’t convince him.
his attention remains fixed on you while you dig through your coat pocket for the keys. the metal slips once between your fingers before you manage to fit the correct one into the lock.
“you knew who i was,” he says.
you keep your hand around the doorknob. “you told me your name.”
“not at the cemetery.”
may’s smile disappears.
the grocery bag gives a warning tear beneath your arm. you push the door open before anything falls through it.
“i have frozen food,” you say.
“it’s winter.”
“i have eggs.”
peter glances toward the bag as though considering whether the excuse deserves a response. before he finds one, you step inside and pull the door closed behind you.
may passes through the wood before it shuts.
“absolutely not,” you say once the lock clicks into place.
“you don’t know what i was going to say,” she replies.
you carry the groceries toward the kitchen. “you were smiling.”
“i’m allowed to smile.”
“not like that.”
you set the bag on the counter and catch the carton of eggs just as the bottom finally gives way. one of the soup cans hits the floor and rolls beneath the table.
may watches you retrieve it.
“the apartment next to his is available,” she says.
you straighten slowly. “how do you know that?”
“i followed him home.”
“that’s stalking.”
“i’m dead,” may replies, following you toward the refrigerator. “it’s different.”
“i don’t think the law has a separate category for ghost stalking.”
“the landlord taped a vacancy notice to the door yesterday.”
you slide the milk onto the top shelf harder than necessary. “you want me to move next to him.”
“you need a cheaper apartment.”
“both things can be true?”
may’s mouth pulls into a small smile. “exactly.”
you close the refrigerator and lean against it. “he already thinks i’m following him.”
“moving next door probably won’t help with that.”
“thank you.”
“but it might help with everything else.”
you look at her. the humor has left her face. beneath it is the same fear she carries whenever an ambulance passes the building or sirens travel toward queens.
“may,” you say quietly.
“he’s alone.”
you fold the empty grocery bag along the torn seam, smoothing the paper between your fingers. “i’m not qualified to fix that.”
“i’m not asking you to fix him.” may glances toward the wall, though peter is nowhere beyond it. his apartment lies several blocks away, in a building you have never seen. “just notice if he stops coming home.”
you should say no.
instead, your attention moves around the apartment. the rent increases again next month. the radiator works only when struck with the heel of a shoe, and the water stain above the kitchen table has spread another inch since yesterday. the pipes behind the wall begin knocking as though they have overheard and would like to add their opinion.
may waits without speaking.
three weeks later, you move next door to peter parker.
—
peter doesn’t offer to help until he sees you trying to drag a bookcase up the stairs alone.
you hear his apartment door open above you, followed by the quick descent of footsteps.
“wait,” he says.
you brace the bookcase against the railing before it can slide backward. “i have it.”
“you definitely don’t.”
“that feels unnecessarily judgmental.”
peter reaches the landing and takes hold of the lower end. he lifts before you agree, taking most of the weight with an ease that does not match his narrow frame.
may appears at the top of the stairs.
“he gets that from me,” she says.
you nearly lose your grip.
peter looks up sharply. “you okay?”
“‘m fine.”
may covers a smile with one hand.
together, you maneuver the bookcase through your doorway. peter lowers it beside the wall without letting it strike the floor. his breathing remains even, though the furniture should have required more effort.
you pretend not to notice.
“thanks,” you say.
he pushes loose hair from his forehead. “sure.”
neither of you moves toward the door.
may stands near the kitchen, looking at him as though she has been given back something she already mourned. peter’s gaze passes through her on its way around the apartment.
“you really moved in here,” he says.
“that’s generally what the boxes mean.”
the corner of his mouth lifts before he can prevent it.
“right.”
you wait for him to ask why. instead, he notices the kettle on the stove.
“you drink tea?”
“sometimes.”
“my aunt used to.”
may looks at you.
you keep your attention on peter. “what kind?”
he hesitates, surprised by the question.
“everything,” he says. “she kept buying new boxes and forgetting which ones she liked.”
“that is not true,” may protests.
“sounds inconvenient.”
“it was.” affection softens the words. “the cabinet was basically unusable.”
may folds her arms. you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.
peter notices anyway.
“what?”
“nothing.”
his expression becomes wary again, the brief softness disappearing. he steps toward the door.
“welcome to the building,” he says.
“thanks.”
he pauses with one hand against the frame. “the hot water stops working around six.”
“good to know.”
“and the guy downstairs complains if you walk too loudly after ten.”
“also good to know.”
“the lock on the roof door sticks.” peter looks toward you. “you have to lift it before you turn the handle.”
you nod. he leaves before you can ask why he assumes you will need access to the roof.
may waits until his apartment door closes.
“he likes you,” she says.
you begin opening a box marked kitchen.
“he thinks i’m a possible threat.”
“for peter, that’s practically friendship.”
—
winter loosens slowly over queens.
months after the first night, your life has begun arranging itself around the dead. the ability is no longer impossible every minute, but it is never ordinary. you still startle when a stranger appears inside a locked room, still check reflections before speaking, and still wake some mornings hoping the silence means it has ended.
it never does. you attend work during the day, return home before dark, and spend the evenings helping ghosts with whatever unfinished business keeps them near the living. may stays more consistently than the others. she disappears occasionally, pulled toward peter when his grief sharpens or danger finds him, but she always returns.
the second person connected to him appears in march.
you find tony stark sitting on your fire escape.
he wears a black suit with no tie, one ankle resting over the opposite knee while he examines the rusted railing with open disapproval. the arc reactor does not glow beneath his shirt. there is no blood, no ash, no evidence of the way he died.
only exhaustion.
“this is a code violation,” he says when you open the window.
you stare at him.
tony looks past you into the apartment. “you’re the medium.”
“you say that like i’ve always been one.”
his attention returns to you. “you haven’t?”
“not before the night the sky split open.”
the humor thins from his face. he studies you with the same concentration he might give damaged machinery, taking in the headache you still get when too many spirits gather and the way you keep one hand braced against the window frame.
“then this is fallout,” he says.
“from what?”
“strange’s spell.” tony glances toward may before looking back at you. “he cast something large enough to rewrite every living memory of peter. the dead kept theirs. best guess, you were caught where the two sides stopped matching, and something in you stayed open.”
you stare at him. “doctor strange did this to me?”
“not intentionally.” tony lifts one translucent shoulder. “it’s a theory. death doesn’t come with diagnostics.”
“you’re tony stark.”
“good. saves time.”
may appears from the hallway and stops.
tony’s expression changes when he sees her.
“hey, may.”
she crosses the apartment and hugs him.
their bodies pass partly through each other before settling into something close enough. tony closes his eyes anyway.
you step back from the window.
“you know peter,” you say.
tony opens his eyes.
“kid’s hard to forget.”
the emptiness inside your memory catches painfully around the name.
“apparently not.”
tony’s face hardens. he looks toward the wall separating your apartment from peter’s.
“where is he?”
“next door.”
“you moved in next to him?”
“may’s idea.”
“excellent.” tony steps through the window instead of climbing inside. “terrible boundaries. strong initiative.”
“he can’t see you.”
“nobody can see me,” tony says. “story of my afterlife.”
he is more difficult than may.
tony criticizes your laptop, your phone, the wiring in the walls, and the way peter repairs his web-shooters with parts purchased from an electronics store that also sells novelty lamps. he refuses to explain how he knows what peter is working on until you catch sight of the boy through your kitchen window one night, climbing upside down along the opposite brick wall.
may watches your reaction.
“you didn’t know?”
“you left out spider-man.”
“it never came up.”
“you told me he burns grilled cheese.”
“he does.”
tony leans through the wall, observes peter for several seconds, then draws back.
“he’s using the old cartridges.”
“is that bad?”
“it’s inefficient.”
“he’s poor,” you remind him.
tony’s mouth flattens.
the next morning, you leave a bag of groceries outside peter’s door.
you include bread, cheese, eggs, coffee, and a compact soldering kit tony insists is adequate but insulting. you do not knock. you are halfway back inside when peter’s door opens.
he looks down at the bag, then toward you.
“did you leave this?”
you keep one hand on your doorknob. “the grocery store gave me too much food.”
peter looks into the bag.
“they gave you a soldering iron?”
“strange promotion.”
his gaze lifts to yours. behind him, may stands in the narrow apartment. tony examines the damaged web-shooter on peter’s desk with increasing horror.
“this is pity,” peter says. “i can buy bread.”
“then consider it a hostile attempt to clear space in my cabinets.”
he looks at you for another moment.
“i’ll pay you back.”
“you don’t have to.”
his expression closes. you recognize the mistake before may says anything.
“let him,” she murmurs.
you nod toward the bag. “fine. you can fix the shelf in my bathroom.”
peter glances toward your apartment. “what’s wrong with it?”
“it falls down every time i put something on it.”
“that’s usually a sign you shouldn’t put something on it.”
“are you accepting the terms or not?”
his mouth curves faintly.
“yeah,” he says, lifting the bag. “okay.”
that evening, peter repairs the shelf. he discovers the problem within seconds, replaces two stripped screws, and stays another hour because may convinces you to make grilled cheese. peter burns the first sandwich while explaining why the shelf had been installed incorrectly.
may laughs so hard she disappears twice. tony watches from the counter, pretending not to.
—
ben arrives in april.
unlike may and tony, he does not appear during a storm or step through a wall with an opinion already prepared. you wake before sunrise and find him sitting at your kitchen table. he is older than may remembers him and younger than grief makes him seem. his hands rest loosely around a mug he cannot lift. he looks toward you with the patient sadness of someone who has been waiting a long time without knowing for what.
“you must be ben,” you say.
he smiles. “you must be the reason may finally stopped worrying quite so loudly.”
may appears beside the refrigerator. “i can hear you.”
ben turns. for several seconds, neither of them speaks. then may sits across from him. the quiet between them feels private, so you make tea and leave the room.
ben becomes the gentlest of the three.
he doesn’t tell you how to help peter. he asks how work goes. he notices when the ghosts become too loud and sits beside you until their voices retreat. when may pushes food and tony pushes solutions, ben reminds you that exhaustion cannot be repaired through stubbornness.
“you’re allowed to close the door,” he says one night after a dead woman spends three hours screaming in your hallway.
you sit on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinets. “she needs help.”
“maybe.”
“that isn’t helpful.”
“neither is destroying yourself for everyone who asks.”
you stare into the tea cooling between your palms.
“peter does that too,” ben observes.
you look toward the shared wall. peter has not returned from patrol.
“so i’ve heard.”
ben’s gaze follows yours. “may says you wait up.”
“may talks too much.”
“she always has.”
may throws a dish towel through him.
peter returns shortly before four. you hear his window open, followed by the soft impact of his feet against the floor. a cabinet closes. water runs for less than a minute. then silence.
you remain at the table until the lights beneath his door go out.
—
spring settles into routine.
peter begins knocking on your door after work. sometimes he needs a tool. sometimes you need help carrying laundry. sometimes neither of you has a reason prepared, and he stands in the hallway until you step aside.
he studies for his equivalency exam at your kitchen table because his apartment’s radiator bangs loudly enough to shake the wall. you learn that he chews the end of his pencil when he cannot solve an equation, though there are few equations he can’t solve. he learns that you organize books according to which ones feel right beside one another, a system he calls completely irrational while continuing to return them to the correct places.
may begins standing behind him while he studies. tony corrects the textbooks. ben reads over your shoulder.
you become careful about where you look. peter notices patterns too easily.
“you do that a lot,” he says one night.
rain taps softly against the window. peter sits at the table with an open chemistry book, while you stand beside the stove waiting for the kettle to boil.
“do what?”
“look at places where nobody is standing.”
tony leans against the refrigerator.
“tell him you’re haunted by his former mentor.”
you ignore him.
“i get distracted.”
peter turns the pencil between his fingers. “by empty corners?”
“they’re very compelling.”
he studies you. the kettle begins to whistle, sparing you from the conversation. you turn away, but peter doesn’t return to his book.
“were you following me that day?” he asks. “at the cemetery.”
“i remember.”
“you never answered.”
may stands beside him now. worry settles through her face.
you measure tea into the mug. “i wasn’t following you.”
“then why were you there?”
“i was with someone.”
peter looks toward the empty chair across from him.
“who?”
the truth rises before fear forces it back down.
“someone who knew your aunt.”
his pencil stops moving. may closes her eyes. peter’s expression empties with practiced speed, every visible reaction drawn behind something harder.
“what was their name?”
you carry the mug toward the table. “it isn’t my story to tell.”
“you showed up at her grave, moved into the apartment next to mine, and somehow knew i needed tools.” his voice remains quiet, which makes the accusation sharper. “you leave food outside my door when i run out. you’re awake every time i come home late.”
“the walls are thin.”
“not that thin.”
tony straightens. ben watches peter rather than you.
“i’m not trying to hurt you,” you say.
“that isn’t an answer.”
“it’s the only one i can give.”
peter pushes his chair back. the legs drag against the floor. may reaches for him, but her hand passes through his arm. he shivers and rubs the place without knowing why.
“i should go.”
you follow him toward the door. “peter.”
he stops with his back to you.
the name no longer feels entirely empty. months of hearing it from may, tony, and ben have begun filling the erased space with a person made from new memories: flour on his cheek after attempting to bake, grease beneath his fingernails, tired eyes softening whenever he thinks you are not looking.
“i’m sorry,” you say.
peter turns his head enough to look at you.
“for what?”
you don’t know how to explain that you are sorry for remembering people who remember him. sorry for occupying the space beside his grief. sorry that every kindness carries a secret.
“everything,” you admit.
he leaves without answering.
—
peter avoids you for nine days.
you continue hearing him through the wall. the scrape of his desk chair, the hiss of the shower after patrol, the opening and closing of the window at hours when nobody should be awake.
may spends more time next door. tony pretends he is not worried. ben sits with you in silence.
on the tenth night, something strikes the hallway wall hard enough to shake a picture from its hook. you are out the door before it hits the floor.
peter lies between your apartments.
his mask has been pulled halfway from his face. blood darkens the side of his suit, spreading beneath the fingers pressed against his ribs. one knee is drawn upward as though he attempted to stand and failed.
may is beside him.
“peter,” she says. “peter, look at me.”
he can’t. you drop to the floor and reach for his wrist. his pulse moves too quickly beneath your fingers.
peter’s eyes open.
“you,” he breathes.
“unfortunately.”
“didn’t want to bother you.”
“you’re bleeding on the carpet. i’m already bothered.”
you slide his arm across your shoulders and force him upright. he makes a broken sound through his teeth but helps enough to reach your apartment.
tony paces beside you.
“entry wound near the lower ribs,” he says. “probably a blade. check the back.”
you lower peter onto the couch.
“stay awake.”
“trying.”
ben kneels near his feet. may stands over your shoulder, hands clasped tightly together.
you cut through the damaged section of the suit. peter catches your wrist, but his grip has none of its usual strength.
“don’t.”
“you can be modest after i stop the bleeding.”
“suit.”
“i’m not selling your identity to the tabloids.”
his eyes sharpen despite the pain. you realize the mistake.
peter has never told you he is spider-man.
tony mutters something you don’t catch. you press folded gauze against the wound. blood immediately soaks through.
“it went through,” you say.
“told you i’m fine.”
may makes a furious sound.
“may says you always say that when you’re bleeding.”
the room stops. your hands remain against his side.
peter’s breathing turns shallow for a reason unrelated to the wound.
“what did you say?”
may looks at you. tony closes his eyes. ben lowers his head.
you could lie.
the months behind you are built from lies careful enough to resemble kindness. one more might preserve everything a little longer.
then peter looks toward the place where may stands.
“you said may.”
you remove the bloodied gauze and replace it with clean fabric.
“yes.”
his fingers close around your wrist again.
“how do you know her?”
“peter, you’re hurt.”
“how do you know may?”
“she found me.”
his grip disappears. you tape the dressing into place with hands that have begun to tremble.
“i had never seen a ghost before that night,” you continue. “then the sky split open, and may was standing beneath a streetlight. tony thinks strange’s spell tore something open in me.”
peter stares at you.
“what spell?”
may whispers his name, and you look toward her. peter follows your gaze into empty air.
understanding does not come gently. it moves across his face in pieces: disbelief, fear, a hope so immediate that he crushes it before it can fully exist.
“is she here?”
may covers her mouth.
you sit back on your heels.
“yes.”
peter looks at the space beside the couch. “where?”
“next to you.”
his throat moves.
“what is she wearing?”
you look at may. “green coat. black pants. the necklace with the small silver pendant.”
peter’s eyes close. may kneels beside him.
“tell him i’m sorry,” she says.
you hesitate.
“she says she’s sorry.”
peter releases a shaking breath.
“for what?”
may’s face crumples.
“for leaving him.”
you repeat it.
peter turns away. his shoulders begin to shake before any sound leaves him. may reaches for his face, her hand moving through his cheek in a faint shimmer that lifts the hair near his temple.
peter goes still.
“i felt that,” he whispers.
may tries again. the lamp beside the couch flickers.
peter looks toward it, tears bright against his lashes.
“may?”
the bulb glows warmer.
you remain on the floor with his blood drying across your hands while peter parker speaks to the dead.
—
he asks you to leave your own living room.
you go into the kitchen and give him as much privacy as the apartment allows.
may stays beside him. you still hear her answers, but you do not repeat them unless peter calls your name.
he asks whether she remembers. she does.
he asks whether she knows what he did. she does.
he asks whether she hates him. the question silences the apartment.
may stands from the couch and walks toward you. fury and heartbreak sharpen her expression.
“tell him to never ask me that again.”
you look toward peter. he waits with both hands clenched against his knees, careful not to disturb the dressing around his ribs.
“she says you’re never allowed to ask her that again.”
his mouth trembles.
may crosses back to him.
“tell him none of it was his fault.”
you do.
“tell him i would make the same choice.”
you do.
“tell him—” her voice breaks.
peter looks toward you.
“what?”
may sinks beside him. “tell him i love him.”
the words settle painfully behind your ribs.
“she loves you,” you say.
peter bows forward, one hand covering his face.
you remain in the kitchen until exhaustion and blood loss pull him into sleep.
may sits beside him. tony watches from near the window, his expression unreadable.
“he’ll need stitches,” he says eventually. “you know how?”
“not well.”
tony removes his jacket and rolls up sleeves that do not exist in any physical sense.
“all right,” he says. “let’s fix that.”
—
peter wakes in your bed.
you give him the room because the couch is too narrow and because may refuses to let him remain anywhere she considers uncomfortable. he finds you asleep at the kitchen table shortly after sunrise, your head resting beside an open first-aid manual.
tony stands behind you.
“she did good,” he tells peter.
peter can’t hear him.
you wake when a blanket settles across your shoulders.
peter steps back. he has changed into the clothes you left beside the bed. his face is pale, but his breathing remains steady.
“you should be lying down,” you say.
“you stitched me up.”
“tony supervised.”
peter becomes still.
“tony.”
the ghost lifts one hand.
you glance toward him. “stark.”
peter sits across from you. “he’s here too?”
“yes.”
“why?”
tony answers first. “unfinished business.”
you repeat it.
peter’s gaze remains fixed on the empty chair beside you.
“me?”
tony looks away. “mostly.”
“mostly you,” you repeat.
peter lowers his eyes to the table.
“who else?”
ben appears in the doorway.
you rub sleep from your face. “your uncle ben.”
peter’s head lifts sharply. ben steps into the kitchen, grief and affection settling together across his features.
“hey, kid.”
you look toward peter.
“he says hello.”
peter laughs once. the sound breaks halfway through.
—
after that, peter begins coming to your apartment for the dead. he knocks every evening at seven.
sometimes may is there. sometimes tony. ben rarely leaves for long, but he respects silence enough that peter occasionally forgets someone else is listening.
you become a voice between them.
it is exhausting in ways none of you anticipate. conversation takes twice as long when every answer must pass through you. grief becomes something physical when it moves from a ghost’s mouth through your own. memories that do not belong to you collect beneath your skin.
peter notices before you admit it.
one evening, may describes a birthday from his childhood. halfway through repeating her words, the kitchen disappears.
you see a small apartment through may’s memory. blue balloons crowd the ceiling. peter sits cross-legged on the floor with cake frosting across his nose while ben attempts to repair a toy without reading the instructions.
the vision takes you so completely that you drop the mug in your hand. it shatters across the floor.
peter catches you before your knees reach the glass.
“hey,” he says, guiding you toward the chair. “look at me.”
the apartment returns slowly. you find his hands around your arms and may kneeling beside you.
“what happened?” peter asks.
“memory.”
“whose?”
you look at may. “hers.”
peter’s grip loosens.
“you can see them too?”
“sometimes.”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
“you had enough to deal with.”
his expression tightens.
“you keep saying that.”
“because it’s true.”
“you don’t get to decide what i can handle.”
the words strike harder because they are familiar. you have said the same thing to ghosts, doctors, employers, and anyone else who mistakes protection for control.
peter crouches in front of you, careful of the broken ceramic beneath his shoes.
“does this hurt you?”
“not usually.”
“that isn’t what i asked.”
you look down at your hands. a shallow cut crosses your palm from the broken mug. peter takes your wrist and examines it.
“sometimes,” you admit.
he rises, retrieves the first-aid kit, and begins cleaning the cut. may watches him with quiet pride, and tony watches you.
“you need rules,” peter says.
“for cuts?”
“for ghosts.”
ben smiles from the doorway. “good boy.”
you almost repeat it before stopping yourself.
peter looks up. “what?”
“nothing.”
“was that ben?”
“maybe.”
his mouth curves. the expression stays this time.
together, you make rules.
no ghosts in the bedroom unless invited. no screaming after midnight. no passing messages while you are eating. no entering the bathroom under any circumstances, a rule tony calls unnecessary until may threatens him.
peter writes them on a sheet of paper and tapes it beside your front door.
the dead ignore most of them. still, the rules help.
peter begins helping too.
he can’t see the ghosts, but he learns to recognize where they stand by following your gaze. he leaves one chair empty at the table. he waits when you need to listen. when unfamiliar spirits appear, he stays nearby until you determine whether they are frightened or dangerous.
he no longer comes only for may, tony, or ben. sometimes he arrives when none of them are present.
those nights become your favorite.
—
summer warms the roof beneath your feet.
you and peter sit against the low brick ledge, sharing a carton of noodles while the city glows around you. laundry moves on lines between neighboring buildings. music rises from an open window below, softened by distance and traffic.
no ghosts stand nearby. you check twice.
peter notices.
“are we alone?”
“yes.”
“good.”
you look toward him. “you say that like you don’t enjoy tony criticizing everything you do.”
“he told you my web formula was pedestrian.”
“he said derivative.”
“that’s worse.”
you smile into the noodles.
peter rests his head against the brick behind him. the fading sunlight catches along the bruise near his jaw, left by a fight he refuses to describe in detail.
“do you remember anything?” he asks.
“about what?”
“before the spell.”
you set the carton between you.
“no.”
the answer remains true, though the absence inside your mind has changed. it no longer feels empty. peter has filled it himself, one evening at a time.
“does that bother you?” he asks.
“sometimes.”
his gaze drops.
“not because i think you owe me the memories,” you add. “i just don’t like knowing someone can reach inside my head and take something without leaving a scar.”
peter looks toward the skyline.
“there are scars.”
“i know.”
“you just can’t see them.”
wind lifts his hair from his forehead. you resist the urge to smooth it back.
“what was it like?” you ask.
he is silent long enough that you expect him not to answer.
“quiet,” he says eventually. “afterward.”
you wait.
“i thought it would feel different. like the world would know something was missing.” he turns the cardboard fork between his fingers. “but everything kept going. people went to work. trains ran. ned started college. mj laughed with customers like she always did.”
the names carry no recognition. you hate the spell for that.
“and you?”
peter looks down at the city.
“i stood outside.”
you understand without asking where.
“do you still?”
“sometimes.”
“why?”
“to make sure they’re okay.”
the answer comes too quickly to be anything but habit.
you draw one knee toward your chest. “does it help?”
“no.”
“then why do it?”
his mouth twists.
“you sound like may.”
“she says that’s a compliment.”
peter looks toward the empty space beside you.
“she isn’t here.”
“no.”
his gaze returns to your face.
“then that was you.”
the awareness between you changes.
you look away first. below, someone closes a window. music disappears from the alley, leaving the rooftop filled with traffic and summer wind.
peter’s shoulder rests against yours.
neither of you move.
—
tony fades first.
it begins with his hands.
you notice the city lights showing through his fingers while he argues with peter about the design of a replacement web cartridge. he catches you staring and tucks both hands into his pockets.
“don’t,” he says.
peter looks between you and the place where tony stands.
“what?”
“he’s fading.”
tony closes his eyes. peter rises from the table.
“what does that mean?”
“i don’t know.”
“you’ve seen ghosts move on before.”
“not like this.”
most spirits disappear after completing something. their absence arrives suddenly, accompanied by a stillness that feels like a held breath finally released.
tony is unraveling slowly.
peter turns toward him.
“is it because of me?”
tony’s expression sharpens. “absolutely not.”
you repeat the answer.
peter pushes one hand through his hair. “then why now?”
tony looks at him for a long time.
“because you’re not alone anymore.”
you stop breathing. peter looks toward you.
tony continues before either of you can speak. you repeat his words to peter between his sentences.
“i stayed because i thought the kid i left behind had disappeared with me. then i find out he saves half the universe, loses everybody, and decides the reasonable response is to live on crackers in an apartment with exposed wiring.”
“tell him i eat more than crackers,” peter mutters.
“he says that’s not the point.”
tony walks toward him. every step makes his outline flicker.
“i couldn’t fix it,” he says. “couldn’t build anything. couldn’t leave money, call anyone, or punch the wizard.”
“he says he wanted to punch strange.”
“still do.”
peter laughs weakly. tony stops in front of him.
“but you kept going.”
you repeat the words more softly.
peter’s face tightens.
“not because of me,” tony adds, looking toward you. “that’s important. she didn’t save you. you saved yourself. she just gave you somewhere to come home to while you did.”
peter looks at you.
the apartment becomes too small for the silence that follows.
tony smiles. “don’t screw it up, kid.”
then he is gone.
no light. no sound. one moment he stands beside the table, and the next the space is empty.
—
ben leaves several weeks later.
he waits until peter is asleep on your couch, one arm folded beneath his head and a book resting open against his chest.
you find ben near the window.
“you knew,” you say.
“about tony?”
“about all of you.”
ben looks toward peter.
“i hoped.”
“may too?”
“she hopes less.”
you fold your arms across your chest. “that isn’t an answer.”
ben smiles sadly. “you sound like him.”
“everyone keeps saying that.”
“maybe you should listen.”
his outline remains solid, but you sense the distance gathering around him. the room no longer holds him as easily.
“i’m not ready,” you admit.
ben’s expression softens.
“i know.”
“you were supposed to be here for peter.”
“we were here for both of you.”
you look toward the couch. peter shifts in his sleep but doesn’t wake.
“i didn’t ask for this.”
“neither did he.”
“that doesn’t make losing you easier.”
“no.” ben moves closer. “it only means you understand each other.”
your eyes burn. ben looks back at peter.
“tell him i’m proud of him.”
“you can tell him tomorrow.”
“tell him anyway.”
fear tightens around your ribs.
“ben.”
“and tell him responsibility isn’t the same as punishment.”
you cannot answer. his hand lifts toward your face. you feel no touch, only a brief warmth across your cheek.
“you did good,” he says.
the words undo something inside you.
by the time peter wakes, ben is gone.
—
you don’t tell peter that may has begun fading too.
you become skilled at avoiding the subject.
when her hand disappears through the teacup, you turn away. when her voice grows faint, you move closer and pretend the city is too loud. when she vanishes for hours, you tell peter she is visiting somewhere else.
may doesn’t approve.
“you have to tell him,” she says.
you wash the same plate for too long.
“he already lost tony and ben.”
“so did you.”
water runs over your hands.
“that isn’t the same.”
“why?”
you set the plate into the drying rack. “because they’re his.”
may becomes very still.
“is that what you think?”
you grip the edge of the sink.
“you found me because of peter.”
“yes.”
“tony came because of peter. ben came because of peter.”
“yes.”
“then they belong to him.”
“people don’t belong to other people.”
you turn. may stands beside the table, transparent enough that you can see the chair through her coat.
“you became my family,” you say.
the admission leaves the room raw.
may’s expression breaks. “oh, honey.”
“don’t.”
she approaches slowly.
“you were alone too.”
“i was fine.”
“you were surviving.”
“same thing.”
“no.” may stops in front of you. “peter thinks that too.”
you look toward the shared wall. his apartment is quiet. he left for patrol an hour ago after promising to return before midnight.
“every time he gets better, one of you leaves,” you say.
may follows your gaze.
“that’s what’s supposed to happen.”
“then maybe i don’t want him to get better.”
the words horrify you as soon as they exist. you cover your mouth.
may’s face softens rather than hardens.
“you don’t mean that.”
“i know.”
“grief thinks terrible things when it gets frightened.”
you lower your hand.
“i can’t lose you.”
may reaches for you. her arms pass partly through your shoulders, but enough of her remains to create the impression of an embrace. you close your eyes.
“you won’t,” she whispers.
“you’re disappearing.”
“that isn’t the same as being lost.”
the apartment window opens behind you. you pull away.
peter stands inside the living room, mask removed, one hand still resting against the frame.
he looks from you to where may stands.
“she’s fading.” it is not a question.
you wipe quickly at your face. “peter—”
“how long?”
“a few weeks.”
hurt moves across his face.
“you lied.”
“i didn’t know how to tell you.”
“you could’ve tried.”
“you lost enough.”
“so did you.”
the words match may’s so exactly that you almost laugh. instead, something inside you gives way.
“i don’t want them to leave,” you say.
peter steps farther into the apartment.
“neither do i.”
“you don’t understand.”
his expression hardens. “i don’t understand losing them?”
“they were yours first.”
“stop saying that.”
“it’s true.”
“no.” peter pulls the mask from his hand and drops it onto the table. “they found you. they stayed with you. may knows what tea you drink. tony spent three days fixing your laptop through you. ben sat with you every time the ghosts got bad.”
may watches him, tears gathering in her eyes.
“they loved you,” peter says. “that doesn’t take anything away from me.”
you look down.
“it feels like i stole them.”
peter crosses the remaining distance.
“you gave them somewhere to stay.”
his hands close gently around yours. his gloves are torn across the knuckles, skin warm beneath the damaged fabric.
“and you gave me somewhere to come back to,” he continues.
may begins crying. you barely hear her.
peter’s thumbs move across your fingers.
“i don’t come here because they’re here anymore.”
your breathing catches.
“peter.”
“i started that way,” he admits. “i needed to hear may. i needed tony to insult my suit. i needed ben to tell me things i already knew and couldn’t believe.”
his gaze lowers briefly before returning to yours.
“but they aren’t here every night.”
you know. you know because those are the nights you wait for most.
“i am,” he says.
the city moves beyond the window. a siren passes several blocks away, rising and fading through the warm night.
“why?” you ask.
peter looks at you as though the answer has frightened him for a long time.
“because you are.”
may turns away, giving him privacy she doesn’t need to offer.
“you know everything i lost,” peter says. “but you don’t look at me like i’m only what’s left after.”
you tighten your fingers around his.
“you aren’t.”
“i know.” the certainty in his voice is new.
you wonder whether that is what healing sounds like—not happiness, not forgetting, only the quiet ability to believe you remain a person after grief takes its share.
peter raises one hand toward your face, then stops.
“can i?”
you nod.
his palm settles against your cheek. the touch is careful, warmer than may’s remembered embrace, more solid than every ghost you have held and lost.
you lean into him. peter lowers his forehead against yours.
“i think i’m in love with you,” he whispers.
your eyes close, a tear rolling down your cheek.
“you think?”
a breath of laughter moves between you.
“i’ve had a complicated year.”
“that’s fair.”
his thumb brushes beneath your eye.
“i’m in love with you,” he says again, steadier now. “not because you remember me through them. not because they still do.”
you open your eyes. peter’s gaze holds yours.
“i love who i am with you,” he says. “i love who you let me become.”
you catch the front of his suit and kiss him. peter freezes for one heartbeat.
then his hand slides behind your neck, drawing you closer with a softness that hurts more than desperation would. his mouth moves carefully against yours, as though he has learned what it costs to hold something too tightly.
you feel may nearby. not watching, but simply there.
when the kiss ends, peter remains close enough that his breath warms your lips.
“was that okay?” he asks.
you press your forehead against his.
“you’re supposed to ask before.”
“i did.”
“you asked if you could touch my face.”
“technicality.”
you kiss him again. this time, peter smiles against your mouth.
—
may stays until morning.
the three of you sit on the roof while sunrise turns the windows of queens pale gold.
peter holds your hand between both of his. may sits on his other side, close enough that her shoulder overlaps his.
she tells stories until her voice begins to fade. peter listens to you repeat them without interrupting.
she tells him about the first night she brings him home. about ben falling asleep beside the crib because he is afraid peter will stop breathing if nobody watches. about science fairs and fevers, ruined dinners and rent notices, hospital shifts and every ordinary day grief once convinced him no longer mattered.
then she looks at you.
“take care of each other.”
you shake your head immediately.
“don’t make it sound like goodbye.”
may smiles.
“all right.” she looks toward peter. “eat something besides crackers.”
peter laughs through tears when you repeat it.
“okay.”
“sleep occasionally.”
“i’ll try.”
“and stop jumping off buildings without a plan.”
“that one might be harder.”
may looks at you. “make sure he tries.”
you press your lips together. “i will.”
the sunlight strengthens.
may’s outline becomes thin enough that the sky shows through her. peter reaches toward her, and you place your hand beneath his. together, you hold the space where hers should be.
may looks at your joined hands.
“there you are,” she whispers.
then she is gone.
wind moves across the rooftop. somewhere below, the bakery doors open. warm air carrying bread and sugar rises into the morning.
peter bows his head.
you remain beside him.
neither of you says that she has moved on. neither says she is somewhere better. the dead have taught you that certainty is often a comfort invented by the living.
you only know she is no longer here.
peter’s fingers tighten around yours.
“i can’t feel her anymore,” he says.
“neither can i.”
he looks at you. the grief between you is not smaller because it is shared.
it is simply no longer carried alone.
—
months later, you wake to someone knocking on your door.
the clock beside the bed reads three seventeen.
you find peter in the hallway wearing half of his suit beneath an oversized sweatshirt. one side of his face is bruised, and his lower lip has split.
“you have a key,” you remind him.
“it felt rude.”
“breaking into my apartment through the window is rude.”
“you said the lock sticks.”
“that was the roof door.”
peter considers this.
“i may have lost some blood.”
you step aside.
he enters and heads automatically toward the kitchen. the first-aid kit now occupies the cabinet beside the sink, stocked with supplies peter replaces before you notice they are low.
no ghosts wait at the table, but the apartment remains full anyway.
peter sits on the counter while you clean the cut near his mouth. he keeps one hand against your waist, fingers moving absently beneath the hem of your shirt.
“how bad?” you ask.
“you should see the other guy.”
“did the other guy have eight legs?”
“six.”
you stop. peter smiles carefully to avoid reopening his lip.
“kidding.”
“you’re becoming less charming.”
“you love me.”
“unfortunately.”
his smile softens. “yeah.”
you tape gauze over the worst cut near his ribs before stepping between his knees. peter draws you closer, resting his forehead against your shoulder.
the kettle begins warming on the stove.
outside, the city continues through the dark. pipes knock inside the walls. the bakery downstairs begins its first batch of bread. somewhere on the roof, a pigeon moves across the ledge with small, scraping steps.
peter turns his face against your neck.
“do you ever see them?” he asks.
you know who he means.
“not anymore.”
his arms tighten slightly around you.
“do you think they know?”
you look toward the empty chair at the table.
for a moment, the kitchen light flickers once, twice, then the bulb steadies.
you smile into peter’s hair.
“yeah,” you murmur. “i think they remember.”
peter lifts his head. you kiss him before he can ask what you mean.
the dead no longer fill your apartment, but their photographs do.
may smiles from a frame beside the kettle. tony stands behind peter in an old newspaper clipping, one hand resting proudly against the shoulder of a boy the world no longer recognizes. ben exists only through stories and the softness that enters peter’s voice whenever he says his name.
the spell takes every living memory of peter parker. it leaves him to rebuild himself from nothing, but magic does not understand grief.
it does not understand that the dead carry love differently, beyond thought and language, beyond whatever fragile place memory occupies inside the mind. it cannot reach the people who leave the world still holding his name.
they remember him, then they give him to you.
and when they are gone, you remember him too.