This is totally based on (and contains quotes from) the book. It also includes the correct names for Wendy's daughter and granddaughter.
Disclaimer: The rights to Peter Pan are owned by the Saint Ormond Street Children's Hospital.
The woman stood at the window of her old nursery, looking out upon the dirty streets below. "Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she spoke aloud. Tears clouded her vision, blurring all of London before her. "A little white bird." Slowly, the shimmering tears made tracks down her face, dripping slowly off of her nose or falling from her chin to make a small saltwater puddle on the floor. It was centuries ago, it seemed, that her sickly grandmother had stood upon this very balcony. The woman was quite insane, and had been muttering children's stories. She told wild tales about fairies and a flying boy and an invisible island on a star. Even their neighbors thought Granny Wendy was a looney. But that day, when the first snow was falling, she had leaned out over the balcony. She leaned far, and looked up at the sky.
"Neverland," the old woman had muttered, before falling to her death some two and a half stories below.
Even now, as the spring was approaching, Margaret Darling stood and looked up at the foggy night sky. The stars were half-hidden by smog and London's usual filth. It seemed like so long ago that she herself had been a little girl and had slept in this nursery; in the gold-painted cast iron bed in the corner. Old dolls, toys, books, and wooden blocks were scattered across the floor, untouched since Granny Wendy's tragic death roughly six months ago. Those six months seemed like forever to her.
A doll's house stood vacated in the corner, now inhabited by spiders and other creepy crawlies. The paisley patterned wallpaper was sun-faded and had begun to peel a bit in the corners. The bedding smelled like old woman, soap, and mothballs. Margaret closed her eyes, gripping the steel balcony supports tightly, and took a long breath in through her nose. She could hear the ringing of the bell, telling her to come downstairs for tea. She could smell the freshly baked cookies Granny Wendy would bring up on a tiny silver tea tray as the girl would play with her teddy bears and dollies.
Margaret had only returned to England to take care of the last pieces of Granny's business. Then she would be on her way back to California, in America, to resume her boring accounting job. Sometimes Margaret wished that the world Granny had talked so often of, the magical Neverland, was real. She had heard tales of it as a child, and remembered dimly the feeling of tropical sun on her skin; but she was sure that it was only a dream she could clearly remember. Something, a feeling, as if she was only half-asleep when it had occurred to her. Once and awhile in her subconscious, a face would appear. It was the cherubic face of an innocent young boy. He had blond hair that curled out at the ends, and his nose and forehead were smudged with dirt.
"Peter," she whispered the name before she could stop herself. Margaret's eyes began to run out of tears and instead felt heavy. Her eyelids seemed to be made of lead, and she stumbled blearily into the guest bedroom where she was staying. Luckily, the twenty-four year old woman had been smart enough to change into pajamas earlier that evening before her reverie in the playroom. Margaret loved to plan ahead. So when the urge to sleep overcame her, she tucked herself into bed and allowed her head to sink deeply into the downy white pillow.
As her green eyes fell slowly closed, she could almost see a blurry colorful shape forming. When she squinted, it burned brightly and for a split second she saw it. Neverland. But then it exploded into a small rainbow crystalline pieces, and she fell asleep. It seemed as if she had only been resting for a few minutes before she heard it. A soft sound, something holding back, someone trying to lock the pain inside and be brave. The first words she thought of were, "A little bird that has hatched out of the egg." She slipped silently from underneath the warm quilt and padded barefoot down the hallway. The feeling of rough wood was familiar in this adventure. Slowly, as she got closer to the open nursery door, she could hear the soft sounds becoming louder.
"Wendy?" came a voice. Strangely enough, the woman did not panic at the sound of it. When she did not answer, it called again, "Wendy?"
"I'm not Wendy," she explained, slowly entering her old nursery. There, sitting on the floor, was a boy no older than twelve. He wore a skeleton leaves and sat Indian style, tracing patterns that only young children know into the threadbare carpeting, placing a calloused fingertip on each of his own tear-stains. Margaret looked down, calm, and spoke in a quiet voice. This is the voice that adults use when explaining a terrible tragedy to any young person. "Gr-Wendy is dead. She passed away just a few months ago."
Margaret knew that he was Peter Pan, the boy Granny Wendy had spoken of constantly when she was a child. "Wendy has...died?" he sounded so shocked, almost heartbroken, when he heard this. "But she promised not to! She promised she wouldn't die! SHE PROMISED!" He screamed the last part, shooting off the floor and flying angrily toward Margaret. Then, as if all his energy had left him, he collapsed out of the air and into her arms. He clung tightly to her waist and buried his face in her upper chest. "She promised!"
"She didn't forget you or Neverland for one minute," Margaret comforted the child, tucking his curly mop of unkempt hair beneath her chin and putting her face in it. She breathed in tandem with him; their chests rising and falling together. In his hair was the scent of freedom and childhood; of forests, streams, fires, nights watching the stars and days running rampant on the beach. Dreams had soaked into his eyes, making them shimmer with the hope of a thousand children. His skin was tanned with days spent frolicking in the sun. She felt him sobbing into her collarbone, begging Wendy to come back. "She never ever forgot. I don't think it was possible for her. She clung to your memory as if it was her entire past."
"D-d-did she?" he asked, looking up. There is something pure in the way a child cries for the loss of a dear friend. Margaret felt more tears clouding her vision and she quickly blinked them away, allowing them to cascade down her face. One of them caught in the moonlight and shimmered. Peter was transfixed by it as he awaited his answer.
"Yes. Granny Wendy told me the stories when I was young, and my mother before me," she whispered. Her voice began to sound choked and hoarse as the tears continued. "I suppose that someday I will tell my children as well."
"You're going to stay, aren't you?" he whimpered, clutching at her desperately. "You've gotta stay! I need you! Just like I needed Jane when Wendy got too old!"
"You knew my mother?" Margaret asked, looking down at him. She held him around his shaking shoulders and cooed.
"Mhm. You too, Margaret. You came for spring cleaning time once too. When you were very young, then your mother moved you away to America and I couldn't find you."
"Peter..." she trailed off, her eyes widening and the tears slowing in their flow. Her heart, although broken for her grandmother's loss, broke again a thousand times for the pain in this boy. He was meant to be the eternal youth. He forgot things quickly and felt no sorrow or pain. He forgot his first injustice, so that any time you were unfair to him he reacted as though it had never happened before. This boy, the most forgetful and insensitive child to live, was crying for the friend he had never forgotten. Margaret made up her mind right then.
"Yes, Peter. I'm going to stay. I'm going to fix this place up and I'll get married. I will raise my daughter right here in the nursery and you can take her away for spring cleaning time every year. I promise."
With those words, Peter burst up into the air and let out a loud crow. He spun around, flying in circles around Margaret. "Do you really promise!" he asked.
"I really promise." Margaret answered. With a whoop of glee, Peter flew out the window and into the night sky, speeding towards his home. Margaret went downstairs and called the insurance agency, "I think I'm going to keep the house."