Peter was dying.
He didn't know it for sure, but his bones were too tired to walk. His eyes were too tired to see. His skin was too tired to shudder with cold. This had to be what death felt like.
It was the coldest winter on record in England, and that was what the rich people were saying. For Peter, it felt like the coldest winter in the world.
The blizzard raged outside of the alley. Peter huddled against the wall, the thin, torn blanket on his shoulders worthless in the rage of the storm. He had hoped that, by taking shelter in the alley between a bookstore and a hospital, he'd be sheltered from the snow. At first, he'd been right. But snow was being pushed into the alley, and Peter knew he didn't have much more time before he'd have to move.
If he could move.
Peter found himself longing for a year ago, a very unfamiliar wish. At least then, he hadn't been a murderer.
Peter groaned, and put his head between his knees. The word swirled around his mind, lodging itself firmly into the recesses of his brain. Murderer, it screamed at him. Worthless street rat. Murderer.
He'd thought, by giving the two children he'd bumped into on the street his last box of matches, he was doing something good. Noble even. He could always steal another box. Peter had felt proud as the two poor children - a boy and a girl - ran into the library, eager to show their mother the precious prize.
Ten minutes later, people started screaming.
Peter had run back to the library, and was horrified at the flaming tongues scorching the clear sky, roasting the clouds, and burning the people. He'd watched as a twelve-year old boy staggered out holding a baby and clutching at his eyes before sinking onto the pavement. Peter had thought the boy looked familiar, but had started running before he could check.
People began talking about the casualties that very day.
A woman had died, apparently, and her son was blinded. Two men were in serious condition at Great Ormond Street Hospital.
It was his fault.
Peter wiped roughly at his face in the alley, to prevent the water in his eyes from freezing. Everything was his fault. He realized that now. Tink dying, Hook nearly killing them all, the fire - he was to blame.
"Are you okay?"
Peter glanced to his left. A girl about his age was also shivering in the alley, a few feet away. Peter hadn't even noticed her. Her blacked hair was cropped short, and her dark brown eyes were worried. She was also vaguely familiar.
"I - no," Peter admitted.
She smiled wryly - the only kind of smile Peter seemed to see. "I thought so." She paused, studying him. "What's your name?"
"Peter Pan," Peter answered automatically, then flinched. He'd learned over the years that telling strangers your last name only spelled trouble.
Peter expected the girl to smile again, at his obvious stupidity. Instead, her eyes went wide, and she froze. "Peter… Pan?" she repeated slowly.
"Yeah… is something wrong?" Peter asked, starting to panic. Perhaps the police knew his name and were looking for him, to throw him in jail for the fire. His heart sped up.
The girl blinked. "I… I know you. Or, I think I know you. I know this sounds crazy, but I… I had a dream about a boy named Peter Pan when I was fifteen, and I remember it so vividly. He came into my room, and he flew… I told him to go away. He was my age then, and there was a fairy, but…." She trailed off, and shook her head.
"What's your name?" Peter asked, wondering if it could be true.
"Julie," she said.
Peter remembered Julie. The girl he saw while searching for Wendy, the one who'd stared at him for a full minutes and refused to talk to him. Yes, he remembered Julie.
Peter smiled - even in the midst of the freezing death, Peter's smile was still intact. "Julie," he said, "If I tell you something, will you promise to believe me?"
Julie hesitated, and Peter saw fear swim in her eyes, until it was replaced with a steady curiosity.
"Yes."