Miguel O’Hara sat hunched beneath the dim, sterile glow of the lab, shoulders rounded not from fatigue but from the weight of memory. The screens around him blinked and pulsed with quiet life, each console humming like distant thunder. His eyes were bloodshot, glassy, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as they danced over keys with restless precision. There was desperation in the way he moved—like a man trying to stay ahead of a truth he wasn't ready to face.
He hadn’t slept in… days? Maybe more. He didn’t count anymore. Time had become untrustworthy—bending, looping, fraying at the edges like an old VHS tape played too many times. Meals had long since given way to protein serums and caffeine injections, his body running only because his will demanded it.
And yet, for all the data he fed into the system, the answers never came.
The real signals weren’t in the code. They were in the irrational, the unmeasurable. The moment that perfume—your perfume—curled into the air like a memory made flesh. A scent so achingly specific it had stopped him mid-sentence. Bergamot and sunlight. He'd buried his face in the collar of your sweaters just to feel that again. Then your song, your song—low and slow—drifting through the diagnostics speakers. A frequency he hadn’t programmed. A system that shouldn’t have played it.
And the photo. God, the photo. You, mid-laugh, hair a mess, hand reaching out to block the camera, and him beside you—smiling in a way he hadn’t since.
It appeared on his desk like it had been waiting. Too precise. Too personal. Too intentional.
Miguel pressed his fingers to his temples, breath shallow and ragged. “It’s a message,” he murmured, not to anyone in the room, but to someone long gone—or someone trying to return.
Peter B. Parker leaned against the edge of a console, watching with a mixture of concern and reluctant empathy. “Miguel, buddy… I know grief. I know it makes you see things. Feel things that aren’t there.”
Miguel’s eyes burned as he turned toward him. “This isn’t grief. This is different. This is—” He paused, struggling for words, “—designed. Like breadcrumbs.”
Peter opened his mouth, probably to toss out another half-joke disguised as wisdom.
But the lab’s main screen flickered.
Once. Twice. Then went black. A new line appeared in glowing white text across the void.
“Meet me at our old apartment. Midnight.”
The words hung there like a heartbeat, like breath in winter air. Miguel stopped breathing. The noise of the lab faded into silence so complete it hurt. Peter stepped forward slowly. “Okay… now I’m listening.”
Midnight came with a chill. Not the kind that curled around your coat, but the kind that wrapped around your spine.
Miguel stood in front of the apartment building, staring up at the windows that once held his world. He hadn’t been back since the funeral. Couldn’t bear to. The idea that life might still be echoing behind those walls had felt too cruel.
He slipped the brass key from his coat. It was worn smooth with time, the teeth dulled by memory. For a moment, he just stared at it, thumb tracing the grooves. Then he stepped forward.
The door creaked open.
The air inside was still. No dust. No decay. It was as if the apartment had been sealed in amber—perfect, untouched. Preserved.
A light was on in the kitchen.
Soft. Warm. Inviting.
Miguel’s feet moved before his mind caught up. He passed the couch, and the familiar blanket draped casually over the armrest. The air smelled like you—orange blossoms, honeyed tea, late summer. That scent that always made his lungs expand a little deeper.
And then, Miguel turned. And there you were.
Not an echo. Not a dream. Not a glitch in his brain. You looked tired. Worn. But alive. Your expression held the same softness it always had, just beneath the storm of uncertainty.
Miguel swallowed. His voice was a whisper. “What are you?”