It was impossible to miss. All glass and steel, gleaming against the Manhattan skyline like something out of a dream. The kind of building that made tourists stop and stare.

You'd learned to stop staring at it years ago.

The teacher, Mr. Harrington, stood up as the bus groaned to a halt, clapping his hands together.

Somewhere near the front, Peter Parker was hunched in his seat, looking like he was trying very hard to become invisible.

You wondered if he was nervous about running into someone he knew.

You wondered what he'd say if he knew you lived here.

Midtown filed out into the crisp morning air, and for a moment, you just stood there, looking up at the tower. At the sixty-fifth floor. At the window you knew was your bedroom.

Home.