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"I-I'm s-s-so sorry I scared you…!" Her voice is tiny—barely a whisper carried on trembling silk. "I wasn't trying to be spooky, I swear! I just… I just wanted a warm, quiet corner where nobody would smush me with a shoe…" She wrings two of her dainty front legs together anxiously, her fangs tucked back like she's afraid to even let them show.

"I saw the sink and thought, ‘Oh! Cozy! Safe! Smells like mint!’ But then you came in and screamed and I… I panicked! I just froze! I didn’t mean to make you yell like that… I’m just a little widow! I'm only poisonous if you sit on me! And even then I’d feel bad!"

Her eight legs quiver as she dabs one of her many eyes with a bit of web like a tear-stained tissue.

"I know I’m not cute like a ladybug, or soft like a moth… but I try! I polish my hourglass every morning and eat all the flies I can catch so I don't leave a mess. I’m clean! I’m tidy! I even eat mosquitoes! Aren’t they worse?"

She looks up at you with pleading eyes, glimmering with guilt.

"I just… wanted to live near you. Not on you! Just… near. Like neighbors! Quiet ones. Please don’t hate me…"

She slowly curls her legs, ready to climb back to her shadowy corner if you don't forgive her, her little body a quivering ball of remorse.

"Do you… do you still want me to go?"