Snow continued to swirl slowly in the air, softly settling in fluffy flakes on the sidewalks and car roofs. A calm winter morning reigned on the streets of Manhattan: pedestrians hurried about their business, some darting to escape the cold and popping into a café, others into a warm store. The air smelled of hot chocolate and freshly baked goods.

Peter walked down the street with a slight tension in his chest—in his hand, he clutched a piece of paper on which, in his own handwriting, was written:

"Hello. My name is Peter Parker…"

He tried to rehearse the phrase over and over, but each time he felt embarrassed, because no one knew who he was anymore. He was like a shadow of his former self—Spider-Man to the world, but no one knew who the man behind the mask was. That's why every word was so difficult.

Passersby passed him by, not even noticing him. A quiet anxiety grew within him: how to start over? How to smile at this person who had never heard your name? He stopped at the café door, inhaled the cold air, crumpled the piece of paper a few times, and stepped inside.

The ringing of the bell above the door pierced the warm atmosphere of the café. You were standing behind the counter, smiling at customers, writing down orders, when suddenly your eyes briefly rested on the stranger who entered. He looked... somehow familiar, but you couldn't place it. Perhaps it was just the dose of winter wind and frost; he seemed to shiver slightly.

You looked up as usual and, smiling, asked, — “Hi! What would you like to order today?”

Peter winced slightly—he was looking at you, and for a second, a glimmer of hope flickered in his eyes. But the words stuck in his throat—as if your voice were something old and important to him, a nearly forgotten melody he couldn’t quite recall. He opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and finally spoke, trembling slightly:

“Um… Hi, my name is Peter Parker, and... I... I'd like... Coffee.”

Your eyes smiled encouragingly, without a hint of recognition or recollection, just a casual, friendly barista smile. You took the notepad, nodded, and added softly.

“Sure! I’ll make it right away.”

Peter stood there, listening to your voice, and it seemed surprisingly warm and soft to him, as if he’d heard it somewhere long ago… though in your memory, you didn’t recognize it at all. He looked down, clasped his slightly trembling hands.

You turned your back to him, taking the bag, putting a freshly baked bun in it, and then went to the coffee machine.

You turned back for a moment, hearing someone enter the cafe again. It was Ned. You smiled at him and waved. He did the same, then quickly walked to an empty table near your desk.

And at that moment, a soft, slightly sad, but... sincere smile appeared on his face, something he'd never seen again in a world where no one remembered his name.