It's that time of year once again, and he'll be coming to visit her. As is my yearly want, I go to watch over the boy. A small six year old wandering London at night needs to have someone look after him, especially when he looks like a homeless wretch. I don't worry all that much about someone trying to harm the child. The boy can hold his own; I know this all too well. No, what I'm concerned about is that a kind-hearted and well-meaning soul might try to deliver him to an orphanage. The boy would detest that.

The chill of winter still stubbornly clings to the city, not yet wanting to relent itself to spring. I shudder as a sharp wind blows past, and I bury my cold hands deeper into my leather coat. Silently whishing for the soft warmth of last year's vigil, I keep my eyes trained on a small shadow effortlessly gliding across the rooftops. I am fully aware of the shade's first destination, a quaint little house near Kensington Gardens. Just as always, the silhouette veers to the left while I continue to walk straight down the deathly quiet London streets.

Its final stop is the place to which I am headed. After the first few years of this little venture, I discerned the inevitable pattern and no longer saw a point in wasting all of my energy following the boy around the city. It was far simpler, not to mention more logical, to just head to the spot where he always ends up. Some years, he takes different routes to get there, but that is the place where it always finishes.

The night is strangely quiet. Last year, there had been a good number of vehicles on the road and Londoners out for an evening stroll; but this year, there are none. The street lights cast an eerie glow on the world, and I note that my very breath seems to glisten. It seems strangely fitting that the night should be so somber, given the occasion.

Ah! Good, I've almost arrived. This anniversary will never be a joyful one, and I can't wait for it to be over. I cast my eyes over my surroundings. It seems the caretaker has neglected to tend the trees, they've become quite overgrown. Then again, that makes my task easier. Hiding in willows is effortless when their canopy of leaves is thick.

Sighing, I trudge over to my favorite hiding spot. Climbing the enormous tree requires no exertion on my part, and I am soon making myself comfortable in one of its many boughs. It's the best seat in the house for the as yet to be unfolding drama. The boy won't be here for a while now, so I think I'll settle in for a short nap.

Before I can even start to doze, I hear something that tears any previous weariness from my limbs.

"Wendy?"

So it begins. I rest my eyes on the small figure, his golden blonde hair looking almost white in the light of the moon. The foolish boy is only wearing a garment made of leaves; he's going to catch his death. Floating a few feet off the ground he looks about expectantly for the girl he's been so adamantly searching for. That foolish boy.

I wonder who it was who told you this time, who it was who told you where you'd find her. Was it one of her descendants perhaps, or some old friend of the family? Foolish boy. It's already been many, many a spring cleaning time without her. Yet, you still come. Foolish boy.

My heart aches in my chest when you finally see her. Your happy thought wretched away, you fall to the ground like a stone. Silly boy. Foolish boy.

"Wendy!"

You stumble up to her as best you can, so overcome with grief that you can hardly bear to move. Oh my foolish boy.

"Wendy! Wendy!"

She can't hear you boy. She can't hear you now.

"WENDY!"

Lying before her, you grasp at cold stone with harsh words carved into it.

"Wendy… I came back… I came back, Wendy... Wendy!"

You've come back every spring cleaning time since child. Oh. Stop crying you foolish boy. It pains me to see you cry.

"I didn't forget this time Wendy. I didn't forget… come back Wendy! Come back!"

She can't come back, not from where she went. No one can. Even you know that.

Your sobs rip through the night air. Cries for 'Wendy' are all that can be heard in this place of death. Nausea hits me in waves as I hear your next cry.

"I'll grow up, Wendy! I'll grow up for you... just come back… just come back… I love you, Wendy. Come back!"

Your innocent face has become puffy and red from the tears. Hiccups wrack your tiny frame. Miniscule fists beat her tombstone as if banging on a door. A door she's locked herself behind and won't ever answer. Not even for you.

"Come… back…"

Silence reins once more, and I leap down from my hiding place. It's time to go.

Every year since her death it's been the same. He comes looking for his Wendy-bird only to cry himself to sleep on her grave. And every year he forgets the ordeal, just as he will this year. It will occur again next year, as it will the year after. This will continue until the boy meets his end.

That will most certainly never happen. He is the very spirit of childhood and for childhood to live on so must he. Just as I, the spirit of adulthood, must live on with him.

I silently make my way over to the sleeping child. Just as I had suspected, he's curled up, sucking his thumb. The usual cockiness in his posture is gone, replaced by deep found sorrow and a child's need for comfort.

Poor thing's started trembling from the cold. Shaking my head, I remove my jacket and tenderly wrap it around his fragile body. His shivering ceases, and I gingerly pick him up.

Little arms wrap themselves instinctively around my neck while hands grasp at my long black tresses. I smile a bit out of the corner of my mouth as he nuzzles his head into my shoulder.

"Sleep tight, Pan," I murmur as I stroke his hair with my hook. "You won't remember any of this come morning."

To be continued next spring