This cannot be happening, Peter thinks as he hurries away from Michelle, leaving her by the curb with an injured hand. His insides scream as he dashes away from her. It's like a ribbon tied to the both of them, and every stride away is an effort, for the elasticity in the ribbon tends to pull him back. For a moment, at this speed, he almost loses balance and trips. But he has to go. He has to know. If Peter is right, something is really amiss with Michelle. He can see it because he has been dealing with things of his own lately.

He avoids crashing into people, somehow, as he speeds through the pavement, faster than cars and merely a blur to the casual eye. When he is sure he has put a considerable distance between him and his school, he cuts to the right and into an alleyway. He emerges out of it, clad in his red and black tights and fits, taking off into the air from the side of the building, swinging, much faster now than the vehicles below. He hears a flutter of wings, previously unnoticed, as he almost crashes into a window, scaring away the pigeons on the ledge.

It takes him around ten minutes to reach where he wants to. It's at the back of a park, under the shadows of the huge trees, overlooking a huge pool. The park hadn't been there five years ago, but since the blip, a lot of things have changed. A lot many are gone, and a lot many are new to sight. Peter's developed a fond for exploring the world around him, grateful for the life he and a billion others have gotten back, something he had taken for granted earlier.

The last time Peter came here was a few weeks ago. He had walked Michelle to the library and then came along all on his own. It was already getting dark, and the cold was setting in. Never being here earlier, Peter wanted to get a taste of the spot, because it looked pleasant enough. A few children were still there, adults too. He walked all over to the end and crossed the canopy of the trees. There was an iron bench on the elevated space before the land steeped down to the edges of the pond, a containment for the cool water that emanated its silence and calm across the entire place. It was eerie, but Peter felt it was nice. So he sat down on the bench, the very bench Spider-Man is standing beside right now, and, because of the cold, rubbed his palms together and pulled up the zipper of his jacket all the way up to the throat.

It was then that he noticed the man approaching.

There was a shed to his right. Somebody had gathered a few logs and set up a small fire. The old man staggered out of the shed, his eyes on Peter the whole time. He had a thick grey beard and he was wearing a woolen cap. He stopped right before the fire, and nodded at Peter.

"Are you cold, son?" he asked, warming his hands from the fire. "Come over and get yourself comfy, would you?"

Peter stood up. "Um, yeah, okay. Thanks!" He slowly stood up and approached the man, noticing that the he still had his eyes on him the entire time. Peter secretly felt for his wallet in the inner pocket of his jacket. Yes, it did feel bulky over there, and he made sure not to touch his jacket any time soon. "That's very generous of you."

The man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You see, I am a postman," he said, motioning to a disfigured mail box Peter had never noticed earlier. "I give letters to people. I even read them out if they want to."

Uneasy, Peter put up a smile. "I see. That's very nice." Although it wasn't. What kind of a postman read out letters to people?

The old man took out a bunch of envelopes stacked together bound by a string. "There are quite a few here, I'll admit," he said, undoing the string and shuffling through the bundle. "I can even read yours if you like."

Now Peter's hair stood on its end. He was beginning to feel that shock-like sensation that was so familiar to him. His spider-tingle was trying to pull him away. "I'm-I'm sorry," he said. He smiled and let out an uneasy breath. "But I don't think I'd be getting any letters."

"No, no, you do." The old man insisted, still shuffling through the envelopes. Every one that he found dissatisfying he threw into the fire. At last he came to a stop when only half of the original bundle remained. He laughed heartily at Peter. "Here it is. Peter Parker."

Peter was not getting it. "How…how do you know my name?"

The man completely ignored him. He tore the envelope and snatched out a letter. "Let me see, my boy. Let me see. It says," he cast a cold glance at Peter, "it says, who so ever it is your better half you shall leave, or it will be her pain that you can't heave. With someone new you shall share, everything you got and everything she'd care." The man crumpled the paper and laughed out loud, his voice booming.

Peter felt an icy cold run down his back of his chest. What the-? He stepped over and took the crumpled paper from him and straightened it. The man kept on laughing, staring at him, the fire only giving away one side of his face, but no one in the park was looking. Peter squinted in disbelief.

The paper was blank.

Now, Spider-Man stands entirely in disbelief again. The shed isn't there. Nor is the mail box.

"Excuse me Sir," he calls out to a man who's doing something with the flowers. Peter walks over to him, hoping, praying, that he is the caretaker. "Excuse me dear Sir," he says again and the man turns.

"Yo Spidey," he greets. "What brings you here?"

Hearing his alter ego's name, it suddenly hits Peter how stupid he is. Suppose he was to meet the old man, how could he talk dressed up all as Spider-Man? The old man already knew his name, and Peter couldn't give away his not-so-secret secret identity too. "Yeah, it's something I'd like to know," he says nevertheless. "Do you work here?"

The man nods. Peter notices he is young, like in his early forties. "Yeah," he says.

A warmth spreads through Peter as he breaths a sigh of relief. "Okay. Sir, um, uh, there was a shed… the last time I came here. And an old man who perhaps stayed or lived in there. A poor old man? With a beard? He said he was a postman. And- and there was a mail box too. Have you- have you seen him lately?"

The man frowns. "A shed?" he says. "There ain't no shed."

"But it was there. I saw it. There was a fire and he was warming his hands, and he was reading out a letter to me."

"How long ago was this?"

Peter tries to remember. "Around three weeks ago, I guess. He was there. I talked to him."

The man shakes his head. "Look. I been here since this park opened, which is around two years ago. If there was a shed or a mail box, I'd know. I come to work everyday, despite the heat, the cold, the rain, the snow. And yet, I assure you, about the shed and stuff you talking about, there never was any."


"It should have been a holiday today," Flash Thompson whines. "Who on Earth keeps a working day on the thirtieth of December?"

Peter hears a sigh from Ned. It's the last day before school closes for winter break, although Flash is right, it is late this time. It's shining outside, and despite the cold, there is a soothing warmth. The two boys stride out taking hurried steps. There isn't any game going on, and half of the class is sprawled across the playground under the sun, because it's a free period.

"Ned, there's something I'm not telling you," Peter says, thinking about the encounter with the old man in the park. Last night, Peter didn't sleep well, and for the first time in a while, he didn't have any bad dream. "And I think now's the proper time."

"Me too," Ned says almost instantly.

Peter stares at him. "You-you too?" They are in the middle of the field now, and from here, Peter has a good view of the school and the line of trees on the other side of the new boundary fence. He decides not to look at it.

"Yes."

"You too what?"

Ned rolls his eyes. "I too have something to tell you. But you go first."

Peter shakes his head. "No you first." He's got the entire hour. Whatever Ned's got must be about some Lego project, some new game, or how he is becoming lesser and lesser of Spider-Man's guy in the chair nowadays. Or worse, he can talk about how wrong Peter had been running away from Michelle like that, leaving her sitting on the curb, or maybe what happened after that. Peter breaths in a massive amount of air till his lungs hurt. He doesn't know why he did it, though. "Go on."

They are sitting on the grass, and Ned plucks out a tuft of grass. "It's about Betty."

Peter frowns. "What about her?"

Ned shrugs, still looking at the handful of grass he's holding. "You know we broke up? Oh, yeah, I told you that. But it's weird. Really weird. We're supposed to be friends, but, this Jason. You know Jason right?"

"Yeah of course, Jason Ionello, if that's who you're talking about."

"Yeah, I heard he's had this crush on her for a long time now, Betty, and I think he's- no. I don't think. He is really trying on her, you know? Like, he's going everywhere she goes. I mean, who on Earth knew he did this quiz thing? He was there yesterday, and he was there before me. So he sat with her. And today…today he's asking her to do another of those news segments about the school closing for vacation, and it's awkward. I mean, it's strange, isn't it? We never did those news briefings when school's about to close for some holiday. Or holidays. And the thing is that Betty agreed.

"So tell me. Is it normal that I don't feel right about this?"

Peter really doesn't know what to say. "Yeah it's weird, that he's also after her. But as a friend, Ned, because that's how you two have made yourselves with each other. As a friend, you can still talk to her. I think she'll listen to you."

Ned sighs, and although he already knows it, it dawns on Peter that perhaps that's how Michelle has been feeling about seeing him with Mary Jane lately. He suddenly feels very wicked, and he knows he has played it very unfair with her.

Not a word was exchanged between the two of them today.

So he gets up. "Ned, I'll be back. Soon."

"Wh-where are you going?" Ned asks, totally taken aback. Maybe he thinks he's about to go and talk to Betty. Maybe.

"To the library," Peter answers, "where Michelle is."

"But you too had something to say, right?"

Right. Peter forgot about it. But right now he doesn't care. Priority one is to confront Michelle. "We'll talk later," he says, and dashes in the direction of the school library. Instead from going in from where they came out, Peter takes a round about the compound and enters through the side, crossing the small herbal garden.

The corridor doesn't get a lot of sunlight at this hour, but it's the shortest way to the library upstairs. Peter heads for the stairs, taking a right.

Right there, a couple of nine yards ahead of him, the door to a room opens and a familiar red head steps out.

Peter stands there, still as a statue, but Mary Jane doesn't see him. She heads the opposite direction, her head bowed, and then disappears into some corridor. Peter looks up to see the placard above the door.

Lately, there have been some things he is unable to understand, like one of them is that the placard above the door from which Mary Jane just emerged reads, School Counsellor.


Michelle is sitting at the end of the library, totally isolated. A bundle of books mount her table, and she is busy jotting down in her notebook. For a moment he stays where he is, hidden behind the shelves.

Looking at her kills him. Her right hand is wrapped in bandage, but she is writing with it all the same. There is the broken Black Dahlia she's keeping beside her on the table, and sometimes, she takes it in her other hand and squeezes it. It's actually unusual, because Michelle is not the kind of girl who shows values to things, though deep down she does care. It's only with Peter when she is not so cold and straightforward. She's not actually rude, but the way she acts with others doesn't give them a very nice time with her. And there he was, the only one she talks to, running away from her, leaving her behind on the curb, scared, and injured.

Scared, but of what? Mary Jane? Or something else?

He pushes himself out of his hiding, and he very slowly approaches her. She soon notices him. She stops writing and looks up. Instantly, Peter notices, she hides the Black Dahlia into her shirt pocket and puts up a bored face, like she is tired and sighing.

"Hi," he says, although it's somehow only louder than a whisper. He slowly, noiselessly, pulls out a chair and sits down beside her. There are huge piles of books facing him, so much that he can possibly make out with her here and no one would notice. No one would, anyway, because she is in the upper floor of the library, and all alone. Except, maybe the cameras.

"Hi," she replies, looking somewhere between him and her notebook. She is still holding her pen, and Peter wonders if she'll just ignore him and resume her writing.

She doesn't. She wants to say something, but is unable to.

Before she can take it away, Peter takes her injured hand and examines it.

"It was…just a scrap." Her tone is clipped and dry. It's a no-brainer she is upset with him.

"I'm so sorry," Peter says, squeezing her hand, and the only two times he remembers being so guilty was when his uncle died and with Mr. Stark moments before he passed away. "How're you doing?"

"Why did you run away?" she asks, reminding Peter why. He thinks about the old postman who was never really there. What would he say to her? To see a ghost? Peter is not sure he has any clue of what's happening around him. And it's all the more stupid, for he could have stayed back with her and seen her to the doctor.

"I had…things to tend to," he says, and consoles himself. Even if it's not entirely true, it's not false either.

She nods, and doesn't question him further. Peter wants to pull her to his arms, but it's the library, and its pretty weird. There's a lot he wants to tell her, but something tells him it's not the appropriate time.

He decides to spend the rest of the day with her instead.


Peter's phone rings in the middle of the night, and even though it's late, he is thankful for waking up because he was having a bad dream about a strange man with a cloak on a horse chasing him through the shadows, which maybe because a few days ago he was reading this comic of Ned's which was about ghostly knights, on translucent, blue horses who breathed smoke through their nostrils. The man was saying something to him, but Peter can't recall what.

It is Michelle. Seeing her name, he wakes up fully to his senses and answers her call. He is suddenly worried. He doesn't even hear her voice, but he is already worried. It is the middle of the night, and the clock just struck two.

"Michelle?" he says, already imagining someone else holding the phone to his ear, having taken her away.

And it sends a chill to his bones because it is her, but it sounds so different. "Peter," she says, so fast that had it been someone else's name, it would have been hard to figure out. "Peter are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm here. What happened?"

Her voice wavers. "It's my mother, Peter. She's had an accident." The line goes dead, and so does the air around him.

Sitting in the deadly silence, Peter suddenly remembers what the man on the horses in his dream was saying.

Your better half you shall leave, or it will be her pain that you can't heave.

Peter should be scared, and he is, but it pulls him down. It buries every other emotion, except one. He realizes the bitter truth, something that has always played before him, and he never noticed. It was with Quentin Beck, who was ready to kill all his friends. It was on the road, that truck, which could have killed Michelle. It has all been a close call, until now. And her mother's accident is not a coincidence.

Thinking about it arrests his breathing, and for a moment, his entire world has come to a halt. He knows that whatever he saw, ghost or not, whatever he heard, had a meaning. He lets lose. His back comes hitting the wall, and he stays like that, his knees pulled up and his hands covering his eyes.

He is lost and helpless.

He is just a threat to Michelle, and maybe it is only better if he stays away.


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