In a quiet house in Los Angeles, an old man sat surrounded by worlds he had created.
On the walls were heroes frozen mid-battle — webs, shields, claws, hammers. They had faces, voices, hearts — all born from his mind. But tonight, they were silent.
Stan Lee leaned back in his chair, the glow of the television flickering across his glasses. The Marvel logo filled the screen — a swirl of images he had once drawn on paper, now blazing across the world in a billion-dollar storm. Crowds cheered for Iron Man, cried for Spider-Man, laughed with Thor. Yet in the quiet, there was only the hum of the air conditioner and the whisper of memory.
He thought of Joanie, his wife, his muse, the love who once danced in his office when he first said, “What if heroes were human?” She had been gone since 2017. He still sometimes turned to tell her about a new cameo idea before remembering she wasn’t there.
Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, the man who had filled the world with heroes wondered who would write his ending.
He remembered being told, decades earlier, that comic books were “for kids.” He remembered fighting to make them art. He remembered sleepless nights, unpaid bills, and how close he came to quitting before Spider-Man swung in to save not only his readers — but him.
Now, his phone buzzed endlessly with people asking for signatures, interviews, photos. Everyone wanted a piece of the legend. Few asked if he’d eaten, if he was tired, if he missed the woman who’d been his universe.
And still, he smiled — because he’d always believed the world needed hope more than he needed rest.
That night, he looked at a sketch on his desk — a young boy with glasses holding a pen like a sword. Under it, he’d written one line:
“The greatest superpower is imagination.”
When morning came, the world woke to the news. The man who built universes had gone home.
But somewhere in the ink between stars, a familiar voice still chuckled, full of warmth and wonder:
“Excelsior.”
