Hey friends. This one is more sad than sweet, just so you know what you're getting into. Also, the memorial I describe here is a modified version of one I learned in my own spiritual training. If you have those you have lost and want to steal this for yourselves, please feel free.

On a lighter note, I'm expecting today's comments from you all to include your personal weird sandwiches. The roast beef and the tomato are my two weird sandwiches. The cheese nonsense is my brother's "Boy Cheese" sandwich from when he was offended at the existence of "Girl Cheese" (grilled cheese) sandwiches. But, seriously. Everybody eats a weird sandwich.

The song for today is "Candle on the Water" by Helen Reddy.

Also, the lullaby in this chapter is a real Italian nursery song that I found via Google. It's sweet, though. Google can also give you the translation, but it's basically about a butterfly resting on a flower.

That's all I've got for the moment.

Enjoy!


Chapter 11: Lighted by a Prayer


The week before Christmas, Tony called May.

Honestly, May wasn't doing particularly well. It was a Monday, and the anniversary of Ben's death was on Friday. The hospital was full of fake cheer which felt even more hollow against the personal tragedies that came and went every day. May wore a plastic garland over her scrubs and asked children about how their families spent whatever holidays they celebrated in December (if they celebrated at all), and tried so hard not to look as though she was shaking apart inside.

A year ago, May and Ben had been finalizing their shopping for Peter and already beginning the annual bickering about who was responsible for wrapping everything. A year ago, they had also had the I-thought-we-weren't-getting-presents-for-each-other argument. The two were constant, hilarious, and good-natured even if they sounded cutting to outsiders who didn't 'get' Parker humor. A year ago, they had been a family of three in the house Ben and May bought after their wedding. A year ago, May would come home from a late shift to curl up in Ben's arms while he woke up enough to joke about her cold bare feet.

Now, May slept in socks and held a body pillow instead.

She could see the weight in Peter's eyes, too. He was struggling, but trying so hard to hide it from her. He talked about school or Ned or Tony, but he was quiet when he thought she wasn't looking. He had started washing dishes after dinner — a chore he'd always hated — and it took her two days to realize he was doing it to avoid going to his room alone. He'd gotten up this morning without May having to wake him, and that could only mean he'd barely slept. Whether from bad dreams or just a brain that couldn't show kindness, she didn't know.

Peter must have gotten that constant reticence from Mary Parker, since neither Ben nor Richard had a withdrawn bone in their bodies (and May's were always turned on 'loud'). He never really wanted to ask for help, to take time from someone else no matter how much they were willing to give it. He rarely said a word if he was hurting.

But May knew Peter would turn the world upside-down for the people close to his heart. He just didn't easily let them do the same for him. It was just another way he was oddly stubborn.

Truly, Peter and Tony were made for each other. Ridiculous, too-smart, emotionally complicated boys with big hearts and tragic stories.

May was so grateful that Tony had agreed to be with them on Friday. And she was not entirely surprised when she took his call on Monday and he started as if already in the middle of a conversation.

"I've got Christmas Eve all figured out. Or, well, Pepper does," he said without preamble. "The only catch is that it's kind of a costume-slash-black tie thing. I hope it's okay that Pepper is coming with us."

May had to catch up to his scattered train-of-thought to find at least one implicit question in there. "Oh! I mean, that's fine. If she doesn't mind. Remember..."

"I know, no ruining Pepper's Christmas. But she swears this is the only thing she wants. And she set it all up herself so you know it's good. It's just...we didn't want Peter to recognize her, so we got the idea of a costume ball kind of thing." He paused. "No, Pep was right, I should have let her call you. I'm horrible at this."

"Apparently." May laughed, and tension unwound from her shoulders just a little bit. "Just spit it out, Tony."

He sighed aggressively. "Pepper wants to know if you have a dress, like a cocktail dress. And if not, I'm supposed to come distract Peter on Wednesday so you two can go out shopping together."

"Honestly," May said, "I cannot imagine anything more intimidating and probably fun than going dress shopping with her." She remembered at the last moment that Peter was in the apartment and he might overhear. "So, put me down for that someday. But, yes, I have a dress. Peter's got a suit that fits him, too."

"Oh, I got Peter handled," Tony said. "JARVIS took his measurements last week and I ordered it myself. He's between sizes, you know, so nothing that wasn't custom fitted in the last four weeks is going to fit him anyway."

May blinked. "Wow. Okay, thank you."

"Bring your dress down to the workshop when you can and I'll get it over to Pepper so it's on hand when we need it."

That made May think that the formal part was only one portion of the day, and, knowing Tony Stark as she did, she couldn't be surprised. But it did make her curious about the rest. "Will we need to bring anything with us? And what time are we getting started?"

"Do you want to be surprised, or should I give you the full rundown of the plan?"

May considered. "Christmas should be about surprises. So give me the broad outline enough that I can have us ready, but that's it."

She could hear Tony's smile. "Fair enough! Okay, well, we'll do lunch first in street clothes. Good walking shoes recommended for the afternoon. Then we all change into our fancy stuff. Then dinner. Home around midnight."

"Sounds great," she said.

And it did. It was completely unlike anything May had ever done on Christmas Eve, even before Ben. It was a loss, but that in itself was a relief. This would bear no resemblance to anything she'd already lost.

Tony was still talking.

"Oh, and. Um. I apparently need your permission to have someone enter your apartment while we're out that day. I am the landlord, so it's legal. But...Pepper threatened to throw me out a window again if I didn't actually get consent."

"I'm very worried about the again part there," May said. "It's fine. I appreciate you asking, though."

"Good, great. That should be the end of me playing messenger boy. JARVIS will add Pepper's contact info to your phone and then you can talk to each other and...oh my god that might be a terrible mistake getting you two together in any way and it's going to come back to bite me, I just know it. Don't do anything I have to live with, okay? Bye, May." He hung up.

May set her phone down and let herself laugh.

Peter peeked his head out his bedroom door. "Aunt May? Was that Mister Carbonell?"

He looked fine, but his eyes weren't. May managed a smile for him anyway.

"Yes," she said. "Remember how he took you on an adventure for your birthday? Apparently we're both going this time for Christmas Eve." She eyed him. "Is that okay? It's not what we've done in the past."

Peter actually deflated a bit in his own obvious relief. "Yeah. I like the idea of making a new tradition."

"Me, too," May said. Though she was more than a little nervous about what the unleashed powers of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts might have in store for them.

-==OOO==-

Peter knew Aunt May wanted him to sleep in on the Friday she kept him home from school, but sleeping in only works if you've fallen asleep in the first place. Thursday night was busy in the workshop with Mister Carbonell, and Peter knew with certainty that his friend had arranged it that way intentionally. Aunt May checked in on them, but didn't call Peter in for bed at the usual time, leaving him to tinker with whatever Mister Carbonell put before him until nearly eleven.

But finally, when he returned to the apartment and Aunt May said goodnight, Peter found he could only lie in bed staring out the window. Past the fire escape, it was cloudy over the city and rain fell in frigid sheets. The sounds of traffic and people which were usually so soothing felt far away. The building's every creak was too loud, too close.

Peter knew he shouldn't try to think too much about Uncle Ben, that it would only wind him up, that there would be enough tears and thoughts and regret tomorrow.

Sadly, Peter's brain had no intention of doing what was best for him, and he didn't know how to stop the constant, intrusive thoughts.

Two hours before dawn, Peter decided there was no point in just lying in bed. But he couldn't stand the idea of reading, or fiddling with the projects in his room, or putting Legos together. The rain had stopped for a time, and though it was still cold and wet outside, somehow that felt appealing. As if being physically uncomfortable would make it easier to bear the scathing grief threatening to erupt inside.

Not wanting to wake May, Peter didn't bother to retrieve his coat from the hall closet; instead, he bundled up in two big sweatshirts and his snow-pants and snow-boots that were in storage under his bed. As quietly as he could, he eased his bedroom window open and removed the screen, setting it to one side. Then he pushed himself out the window to crouch on the fire escape.

The metal was wet and colder than he'd expected, and Peter felt an immediate chill. He hunched on the metal slats of the small landing and wrapped his arms around his knees, looking out over the buildings to the warehouses and the Manhattan skyline beyond.

Peter wasn't sure he'd ever felt so alone in the world. He was just a boy perched seven stories up in the dead of night where no one could hear him cry.

So he buried his face in his arms and wept.

It hurt. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to be.

Uncle Ben was dead, and Aunt May was alone too.

Peter felt like his chest had become a black hole. Like the void of space had sucked everything out from inside his ribs and left him with nothing.

And no matter how many tears he cried, nothing filled in the emptiness.

Peter had no idea how long he huddled there, but cold had soaked through his snow-pants and he could feel the bite of the icy metal ladder against his back in spite of both sweatshirts by the time something startled him out of his misery. At first, Peter wasn't sure he'd heard anything besides the shaky plea inside his own chest for the pain to go away.

But he gulped a breath and held still, and now he could hear it, very softly in the air.

A man's voice, singing something from above him.

Peter leaned back and nearly banged his head on one of the fire escape railings. The sky was still dark, but there were enough lights in the city and safety lights on the building that he could make out the feet belonging to a figure sitting on the low wall around the roof just above his head.

"Mister…?" he began shakily.

There was a pause, and then the singing started up again, just loudly enough that Peter could make out the syllables even if he didn't understand the words. But he had heard enough to know it was Italian that Mister Carbonell was singing.

"Farfallina
Bella e bianca
vola vola
mai si stanca
gira qua
e gira la
poi si resta sopra un fiore
e poi si resta spora un fiore.

Ecco ecco
a trovata
bianca e rosa
colorata
gira qua
e gira la
poi si resta sopra un fiore
e poi si resta spora un fiore."

Peter waited, but the song ended after the second verse. He wondered idly how long Mister Carbonell had been singing before he noticed.

"Kid."

Peter still couldn't see the man's face, but he looked up anyway. "Um."

"Go back inside. I'm not leaving until you do, and if we both freeze, who will thaw us out?"

He didn't want to. Not even a little bit. But, then, Peter didn't want to sit here cold and miserable, either. He just wanted it all to stop.

"I know what you're feeling," Mister Carbonell said. "Believe me. I get it. But if you sit out here any longer, you'll get sick. And it doesn't...even if it makes you feel like you get to make a choice in a world that doesn't give you any, it doesn't actually help you to hurt yourself."

"I'm not," he said reflexively. "I mean, it's not...it's not that."

There came a heavy sigh. "Yeah, Underoos. It is. And I don't want that for you. So just...go inside. Please."

"Are you going to tell Aunt May?" Peter asked, not yet ready to relinquish his place.

"If she asks, I'm not going to lie for you, Pete. But otherwise, no. If she catches you with a bunch of wet clothes, though, she'll figure it out on her own."

"I guess."

"Go inside. Get out of the wet stuff and put on something warm and soft. Curl up in bed. Close your curtains. Even if you can't sleep, just lie there for a while. You'll get more rest there than you do out here. And when you get up, I'll come over. Okay?"

"Even though today is…?"

"May already invited me." A pause. "I know the world feels empty, Peter, but it isn't. You don't even know how many people care about you. You're not alone."

Peter gulped a lump of tears. "Neither are you, Mister Carbonell."

"Thanks, kid. Now, scoot."

Peter found he could breathe a little more freely. Even as he started to move, though, he spoke up again. "One condition."

"Oh my god what is it with you Parkers and your conditions? Fine. Shoot. What?"

Peter smiled in spite of himself at the annoyed tone. "Will you teach me to speak Italian?"

"Aren't you learning Spanish in school? And you hate it?"

"Yeah, but...it would be different." He didn't really have the words to explain and he hoped Mister Carbonell understood the why of it being different without having to say anything. But since it was a language that was apparently really important to Mister Carbonell, he wanted to share in it. Besides, May didn't speak Italian, and had always said it was a better language than Spanish, more full of emotion and nuance.

And maybe it would help a bit with Spanish, too.

"Fine. First lesson. Vai a letto. Can you guess what that means?"

"Go to bed?" Peter guessed.

He could hear Mister Carbonell's smile in his words. "You're a genius. Now, for the last time…"

"I'm going." He pushed the window open again and started to crawl in. But before he shut it again, he leaned out. "Thank you for...keeping me company."

"See you in the daylight, Pete."

By the time Peter stripped out of his wet clothing, hanging everything that was damp off the side of his bed to hopefully dry by the time May noticed, he felt more tired and at ease than before. Maybe because of just giving himself the space to cry, maybe because of what happened after, maybe because it was edging towards dawn and he had already lived a long day. But he pulled on his warmest flannel pajamas and curled into bed, wrapping the blankets around him like a cocoon.

The next thing he knew, he was wide awake and his bedside clock said it was almost noon.

Peter heard May moving around in the apartment, and he heard the familiar low tones of Mister Carbonell's voice, too. He stretched.

Today was the day.

He was tempted to just stay in bed, wrapped up and warm, and let time pass him by. Maybe if he stayed in his room, the day would just end and he wouldn't have to be part of it. But he didn't want May to face it alone. So he rose and got dressed and made his way out into the living room.

"Hey kiddo," May greeted him at once. "Did you get some rest?"

"Yeah," he said. "Hi, Mister Carbonell."

Mister Carbonell was sitting at the table with a big mug of what was probably coffee and a tablet in front of him. He waved the tablet. "Hi kid. Glad you got some sleep."

Peter shot him a look, but Mister Carbonell gave a subtle shake of the head and a wink.

"Well, would you rather eat breakfast or lunch?" May asked. "You have to be hungry."

The nerves in Peter's gut came back, and he opted for toast just in case. He sat across the table from Mister Carbonell, drinking juice while May moved around the kitchen.

Then he smelled burning. "Aunt May?"

"Oh, shoot. That toaster hates me!"

Before May could do something silly — like poke at the toaster while it was both turned on and plugged in — Mister Carbonell rose and intercepted her. "I'll take care of it. It's probably just a loose wire in the heating coil."

It took him less time to disassemble the toaster and repair it than it ultimately did to make toast. Mister Carbonell made extra and stole a piece himself, though he only ate it with butter. Peter, instead, heaped jelly on his toast until it was more like an open-faced sandwich.

Aunt May was quiet while he ate, but afterwards, she cleared her throat.

"Okay, Peter. There's one thing we should decide before it gets much later." She twisted her fingers together. "Do you want to go to the cemetery to see Ben today?"

Peter shook his head. He couldn't think of anything he wanted to do less.

"Okay."

"What about you, May?" Mister Carbonell asked. "If you want to go, I can stay with Peter."

"No, not yet." She shook her head just as Peter had. "Someday...it'll be a comfort. But today I don't think it will be."

Mister Carbonell nodded. "Fair enough."

"Okay." Aunt May shook herself. "I have...something planned. But it feels like we should do it as the sun is setting. More...I don't know. Spiritual, I guess. If that's okay."

Peter shrugged and Mister Carbonell did, too.

"What do we do until then?" Peter wanted to know. He hated the idea of sitting around in the apartment feeling awful and not doing anything else all afternoon. Even though the sun set early, that was still hours of idle grief and he just did not want to face that.

"I'm not…" Aunt May faltered. And Peter remembered that her grief was just as confusing and overwhelming as his own.

"Tell me something about him," Mister Carbonell said suddenly. "Like, weirdest sandwich he made and actually liked. Everybody eats a weird sandwich."

That startled a laugh out of both of them. Peter recovered first.

"Uncle Ben ate roast beef with ketchup on white bread. Plain. Nothing else."

"Oh, honey." May chuckled. "You didn't know him in his cream cheese, pickles, and cheddar phase."

"He ate what?" Peter was astonished. "How is that even food?"

"I have no idea."

Mister Carbonell smiled. "Yep, that's what I was going for. Okay, what about...how you two met, May?"

And somehow, time passed. They migrated to the couch, bringing snacks and drinks along. Eventually a photo album appeared, and May walked both Mister Carbonell and Peter through images taken before Peter was even conceived. Peter ran into his room a few times to grab books or pictures of his own, showing them to Mister Carbonell like treasures. Eventually they were all laughing, even if sometimes there were tears, too.

And Peter noticed that sometimes Mister Carbonell added stories of his own. Never about his father, but about his mother. About her weird sandwich (tomato and mayonnaise), her hatred for the scent of lavender, how she accidentally taught Mister Carbonell the worst swear words in Italian without realizing he had picked it up.

"I'm not teaching you those words, though," he warned Peter.

Peter frowned. "Aw, come on, Mister Carbonell. You gotta teach me them so I know what not to say."

"First of all, still no. Second of all, I'm not teaching you any of the best words until you quit with this 'Mister Carbonell' stuff. Seriously, kid. Can't you call me 'Tony' yet?"

Peter shook his head, probably a little too gleeful. "Nope. I'm only calling you Mister Carbonell until I'm, like, really old. Maybe forty."

Aunt May laughed at that. "It's okay if he's given you permission," she said for, like, the hundredth time.

"But it's okay for me not to, right?" Peter asked.

"Of course it is."

"Kid," Mister Carbonell said, "you have no idea what it's doing to me. I'm having a crisis of confidence here. Can't you put me out of my misery?"

Peter shrugged. "No, thank you."

And Mister Carbonell's frustration was funny enough that it distracted him for a lot longer than even Peter realized. He wasn't really doing it on purpose, but the more he refused to call him 'Tony,' the funnier it got and the more he enjoyed the teasing that came with it.

So by the time the sun was setting, Peter felt okay with whatever Aunt May had decided to do. As okay as he thought he'd feel today, anyway.

"Okay, I think it's time," she said, rising. "This is...I found it on the internet. But I liked it. So…"

"It's fine, Aunt May," Peter said. He got up and leaned against her. "If it helps you, it'll help me, too."

"It's your day," Mister Carbonell added, nodding.

Aunt May took a deep breath and moved back to the kitchen. First she turned out most of the lights, leaving the room cast in shadows except for the setting sun and the building lights that were just starting to turn on. Then she dug around under the sink until she pulled out a shoebox filled with candlestick holders. There were a dozen of them, all mismatched in different colors, materials, and states of wear. She added a box of thick, white pillar candles, and a box of matches to her armful.

Aunt May carried everything — without help, even though both Peter and Mister Carbonell lunged to assist and she ignored them — to a table she had moved in front of the windows that faced west. She pulled the blinds all the way up, leaving them with the sun set in the western sky and the lights of the skyline in view.

"How this works," she said, "is you pick a candlestick that speaks to you. You set a candle in it and you hold it. As you light the candle, you tell it the name of someone you want to remember and honor. Then you look into the flame and say whatever you wish that person could hear. You can do it silently or out loud. We all take turns. And when we're finished, we open the window and let the wind blow them out and carry the smoke to the sky."

She tied her hair back and took a deep breath. "Here, I'll go first."

She picked one of the candlesticks that was heavy, clear glass that had a rose imprinted on one side. She struck a match and held it to the wick.

"Mary Fitzpatrick Parker." Aunt May closed her fingers around the candlestick. "You were my best friend, not just a sister-in-law. I miss watching you make cookies, and I wish I had paid better attention because I'm worse than the boys every time I try baking. I know it's been years, but I still think about you every day. And any time I get stuck, I think about what you would want me to do, and I haven't screwed up yet. Wherever you are, I hope you know that I love you as much as I ever did, and I will always try to love Peter like you would have."

Peter found himself moving as soon as May put her candle down on the table; Aunt May's words to his late mother had spurred a need in him to do this for himself. He realized that one of the candlesticks was actually for a pair, and he looked up. "Can I do two at once?"

"Of course you can," Aunt May said.

Peter lit the candles with a shaky hand. "Mom. Dad."

He didn't know what he wanted to say, so he just let himself talk.

"I hope you're okay. I don't...remember as much as I used to, but the pictures today helped. I know you wouldn't be mad at me for forgetting. But I...I'm just glad that you made me, and you picked Uncle Ben and Aunt May to be my family. Aunt May says you would be proud of me, and I hope you are. I love you both, wherever you are."

Then he set down the candlestick and scrubbed at his nose with a fist.

His chest felt tight, but there was something good in it, too. A tension released somehow.

Peter was so busy feeling what he was feeling, he didn't realize that Mister Carbonell had picked up a candlestick. It was metallic, with rust clinging to the side.

But all he said when he lit the candle was "Dad." He held it for what felt like a long time before he set it down.

Peter waited as the other two alternated for a while. Aunt May chose another candlestick and spoke first to Richard Parker, then her mother, then her father. Mister Carbonell took one but he didn't speak the name aloud — it was black and very straight-looking and he even stood more upright when he held it. After that, he chose one that was a sandy color of stone.

"Yinsen," he said. "I'm keeping my promise. You gave me a chance, and I'm not wasting it. I promise."

After that, Mister Carbonell's hand landed heavily on Peter's shoulder.

But Peter felt frozen, because the only one he had left was for Uncle Ben and he just wasn't ready. And, glancing at Aunt May, she was having the same trouble.

Mister Carbonell watched them both for a moment, then selected a candlestick that might have been silver, even if a little tarnished. He rubbed it on his shirt for a while before he set the candle in it.

"Mom," and his voice broke for the first time. "I don't...you were…" He shut his eyes.

Peter pressed his shoulder against him as if to steady him.

Mister Carbonell leaned back, then opened his eyes. "I'm going to do better. I'm going to do what you would have, I think. What you would have liked." He transferred the candlestick to one hand so he could rest the other on Peter's head. "And I'm going to teach him your Italian."

When he set it down, he hid his face in his hands for a few moments.

For a long, breakable moment, nobody moved.

But Aunt May was the bravest, and finally she took a deep breath.

She lifted one of the few remaining candlesticks. This one had a heart carved on it.

"Ben," she whispered to the flame. "Oh my love, I miss you every minute. But you would be proud of us. We're okay. We're still living our lives. You...what you taught me to do with Peter after his parents...I'm doing it now. It's not easy."

She stopped for a moment, cleared her throat. Her eyes were strange points of fierce light.

"God, Ben. It's so hard. But I'm...I'm here. Tony helps. You'd like him. I think you would have been friends. But he's not...well. Nobody could ever take your place, Ben. Nobody will, I think. But...I felt more love from you in the time we had than some people ever get in a lifetime. So I'm okay."

Her voice, and her hands, started to shake. "I'll see you in my dreams, Ben. Always."

She set the candlestick down and started to cry hard. But before Peter could move to support her, Mister Carbonell did.

"I got her, kid," he said with a thick sound in his voice. "Take your turn if you want to. Only if you're ready."

Peter's hand was unsteady as he selected a candlestick that was polished wood.

"Uncle Ben." Already tears were coming. "I'm so sorry. I know it wasn't my fault, it wasn't anybody's fault, but I just...I wish I could have saved you. I wish…"

He stopped, coughed — because it was either that or sob — and tried again.

"I miss you all the time. But I'm okay, too. Mister Carbonell takes good care of Aunt May for me, like right now. And he helps me when I'm in trouble. And...he makes me feel safe. So...you don't have to be too worried about me. I'm going to be okay."

He shuddered.

"I remember you telling me that you would always be proud of me and that you loved me. And I believe it. But you also said I was s-strong. And...I don't...what if I'm not? What if I'm…?"

He rubbed his face on his shoulder so he didn't have to put the candle down.

"I'm scared, Uncle Ben. But...I'm going to try anyway. I'll be...s-strong. Because you believed in me. And I can...I can be brave. Because I'm not alone. I just...I miss you so much, Uncle Ben. And I'm still sorry even though I shouldn't be. And I know you understand."

His hand trembled as he set the candlestick down. "I love you, Uncle Ben."

Peter felt Aunt May wrap her arms around him from behind, and then he was leaning on both of them even though he couldn't look away from the table lit with eleven steadily-burning lights. May was still crying, but he could tell she was starting to calm down, and Mister Carbonell seemed to be unsure how to make a group hug work right. But Peter just stared at the table.

There was one candlestick left without a candle, a simple white one. That fact bothered Peter enough that he made himself take a deep breath around his tears. "Can I do that one?"

Before either adult replied, he extricated himself from them and set a candle in it, lighting it.

"For...anybody who doesn't have someone to remember them," he said softly. "People who got hurt or lost, the people who got stuck in the middle of big stuff like when there were aliens in Manhattan." He hauled in a breath. "Even if I don't know you, I hope you're okay. I hope you're not alone wherever you are. And if you see my family, say hi. They'll help you. That's what Parkers do."

"Yes," Aunt May said thickly. "That's what Parkers do."

He set the last candle down and let himself be folded back into the hug.

The twelve candles stood arrayed on the table, burning merrily. The sun had set and the sky was lit only by the life of the city. May held onto Peter for a while, they both leaned on Mister Carbonell, and Mister Carbonell managed to rub Peter's head while hugging her somehow. Peter didn't know how long they stood there, watching the lights of the city blink.

But finally Peter felt his chest relax, even if he couldn't have said why.

"I'm ready," he said. "When you are."

Mister Carbonell nodded at Aunt May. She peered at the candles for a long breath, then nodded.

"Okay, I'm ready, too."

"Let's do it together," Peter said.

So the three of them managed to each get a hand on the window next to the table.

Aunt May counted down. "One...two...three."

Together, they pushed the window open and let in a blast of icy air. At once, all twelve candles went out, their little wisps of smoke curling in the breeze that filled the room.

Peter leaned on the windowsill and looked out and up. He couldn't really see stars in the city, but he knew they were there.

"Goodbye," he whispered.