Disclaimer: J.M. Barrie owns all.
A Different Wind
The window has been opened. To be more precise, it has never been closed. Ever. Not even once in the five years since Wendy Moira Angela Darling and her brothers, now eight instead of two, returned from the Neverland. It has been five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days. But she knew that it was probably a mere week in the Neverland.
She hoped that he has not forgotten about her yet. At least, not in a week's worth of time.
Every night, after she helped Mother tuck her brothers into bed, she would tiptoe her way to the rocking chair. The very same rocking chair that her mother stayed in while waiting for her own return from the Neverland. And now, she was waiting for him.
"Peter."
Her mother, as usual, would tell her to go to bed. "There is nothing out there that is worth your wait, Wendy, dear," she would say. "I'm sorry, love. I'm afraid he will not come back."
"That's not true!" Wendy would retort. Yes, she has told Mother about the boy. She has told Mother everything.
Yes, including her attempt at piracy. ("I was only a storyteller!" she would say, more sadly than defensively.)
After a while, Mrs. Darling would surrender at her efforts of convincing her only daughter to withdraw to her own room. Before walking out of the nursery, she would only tell Wendy to pull a quilt to cover her body, so she would not become ill. "It gets chilly, dear. Do be careful."
There were times when Wendy could not tell whether Mother did meant "chilly", or if she has meant "chilling". Sometimes, she could feel a slight breeze coming in through the opened window. It was not the cool breeze that she has felt against her skin while flying all those years ago. That has been fun. Enjoyable. Satisfying.
Happy.
This was. something completely different. Not foreign, just different. She has felt this before. She has felt this, constantly, for the past one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days. Well, give or take a few split seconds here or there, where she could almost feel his presence. Those were the times when she just knew he was at the window. He has to be.
But, the second would be immediately over when she found out that, indeed, he was not outside the nursery. He was still in the Neverland, so far away. So far from her.
Her heart sank. This was it. She has identified the wind and its emotion. It was the same as her own emotion.
It was chilling. It was completely opposite of everything she has felt as a child. It was different than all the joyous feelings she was fortunate enough to experience. It was almost sickening.
It was she, without Peter. It was she, being incomplete.
It was a sign that was telling her to grow up.
A Different Wind
The window has been opened. To be more precise, it has never been closed. Ever. Not even once in the five years since Wendy Moira Angela Darling and her brothers, now eight instead of two, returned from the Neverland. It has been five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days. But she knew that it was probably a mere week in the Neverland.
She hoped that he has not forgotten about her yet. At least, not in a week's worth of time.
Every night, after she helped Mother tuck her brothers into bed, she would tiptoe her way to the rocking chair. The very same rocking chair that her mother stayed in while waiting for her own return from the Neverland. And now, she was waiting for him.
"Peter."
Her mother, as usual, would tell her to go to bed. "There is nothing out there that is worth your wait, Wendy, dear," she would say. "I'm sorry, love. I'm afraid he will not come back."
"That's not true!" Wendy would retort. Yes, she has told Mother about the boy. She has told Mother everything.
Yes, including her attempt at piracy. ("I was only a storyteller!" she would say, more sadly than defensively.)
After a while, Mrs. Darling would surrender at her efforts of convincing her only daughter to withdraw to her own room. Before walking out of the nursery, she would only tell Wendy to pull a quilt to cover her body, so she would not become ill. "It gets chilly, dear. Do be careful."
There were times when Wendy could not tell whether Mother did meant "chilly", or if she has meant "chilling". Sometimes, she could feel a slight breeze coming in through the opened window. It was not the cool breeze that she has felt against her skin while flying all those years ago. That has been fun. Enjoyable. Satisfying.
Happy.
This was. something completely different. Not foreign, just different. She has felt this before. She has felt this, constantly, for the past one thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days. Well, give or take a few split seconds here or there, where she could almost feel his presence. Those were the times when she just knew he was at the window. He has to be.
But, the second would be immediately over when she found out that, indeed, he was not outside the nursery. He was still in the Neverland, so far away. So far from her.
Her heart sank. This was it. She has identified the wind and its emotion. It was the same as her own emotion.
It was chilling. It was completely opposite of everything she has felt as a child. It was different than all the joyous feelings she was fortunate enough to experience. It was almost sickening.
It was she, without Peter. It was she, being incomplete.
It was a sign that was telling her to grow up.