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Harry Osborn lay with his head down, arms crossed against the polished surface of his father’s old desk.
He was filled with a deep and terrible bone-weary cocktail of melancholy and nostalgia.
And alcohol.
He missed the college days. When his dad was there. When he and Peter shared a place. When things were simple.
Before everything had gone to hell.
He felt nothing but a terrible void of loneliness and longing now. Despite the wife and child waiting for him at home.
Maybe because of.
The shadow of his father loomed over him as he gripped the bottle’s neck.
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