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The letter came in the mail with no return address. Stark Industries written in gold on the corner.
Peter stared at it for an hour before opening it. His hands trembled as he peeled back the tape, already knowing , feeling, what it was.
Inside was a single envelope. Cream-colored. Slightly worn.
His name was written across the front in Tony Stark’s unmistakable handwriting.
“Parker.”
Not Peter. Not Spider-Man. Just… Parker.
Peter sat on his bed, back against the wall, knees pulled close. The world was quiet except for the rustle of the envelope as he opened it.
Hey, Kid.
If you’re reading this, I didn’t make it.
Yeah, I know. Dramatic. But I’ve learned to prepare for the worst, especially after a few dozen near-death experiences and a little thing called The Snap . (You might remember that one.)
There’s a lot I could say, but let’s keep this simple. You were never just the “intern.” Never just the “kid.” You were the reason I remembered who I was supposed to be.
I don’t say things like this easily, so don’t go blabbing to anyone, but… you made me proud. Like, dad-level proud. (Not that I know what that’s supposed to feel like—I had a crap role model in that department.) But I looked at you and thought, damn, that kid’s gonna change the world.
And you will.
You’re better than I ever was, and I mean that. You’ve got heart, and conscience, and a moral compass that actually points north. Don’t lose that. Don’t let the world harden you.
And for the love of all things holy, take care of yourself. Seriously. Eat something green once in a while. Sleep. Talk to people. Let them help. Let May help. You’ve got people, Pete. Don’t carry everything alone.
I know you probably miss me, (Let’s be honest, who wouldn’t?) But don’t let that grief become guilt. I made my choice. I’d do it again.
I hope you do well, Pete. You were the best thing I ever built, and I didn’t even build you.
You just… showed up. Like a spider crawling into my high-tech life.
And I’m so damn glad you did. I love you, kid.
—Tony
Peter didn’t realize he was crying until the ink on the letter began to blur.
He clutched the paper to his chest and curled in tighter, trying to breathe around the ache in his throat. He wished he could say something back. That he wasn’t enough. That he should’ve done more. That Tony shouldn’t have had to—
But somewhere, under all of that, was warmth.
Tony Stark had written him a goodbye.
Tony Stark had loved him like a son.
And somehow, that made the silence a little less cold.
Three weeks later, Peter stood at Tony’s grave.
He didn’t say much. Just held the letter in his pocket and whispered, “Thank you.”
Then he turned, lifted his mask, and swung into the sky.
Carrying the memory of a man who’d given him everything, the man who was his dad.