Peter Parker dropped his backpack on the gray school steps. His math textbook tumbled out, pages scattering like frightened birds across the sidewalk. Students poured past him — all chatter and hurried footsteps — but nobody stopped.
He counted to three. One. Two. Three. Then he picked up the book and held it tight against his chest. Something orange-red slipped from between the pages and began crawling toward the curb.
The ladybug climbed to the very edge of the step. Below, cars roared and buses rumbled. It paused at the lip, one leg hanging over nothing at all, and Peter held his breath.
BEEP. A bus horn blasted across the street. Peter jerked backward. The ladybug stopped. Its little antennae twitched — once, twice — then it turned around and began walking back.
Peter slowly lowered his hands. The ladybug stepped right into his palm. He could feel its tiny legs ticking against his skin. You came back, he thought.
"You came back," he whispered. The ladybug walked up his wrist, crossing his hand like a narrow red bridge, climbing toward his sleeve. Peter didn't move a muscle.
Peter stood up. The ladybug had reached his shoulder and settled there, a small red dot against his dark shirt. He adjusted his backpack and started walking again.
The school doors swung open with a groan. Warm light spilled out onto the steps, mixing with the cool morning air. Peter stepped forward. His sneakers crossed the threshold.
The noise of the street faded — the horns, the chatter, the endless rush — until it was just the quiet hum of the hallway. Peter kept walking.
Peter didn't look back. He walked deeper into the school, past lockers and bulletin boards, until the morning noise was gone entirely. On his shoulder, invisible now, the ladybug rested.